The Unlikely Heir
by WANMWAD
Summary: In this sequel to "A Study in Gold," Dr. Hopps returns to Zootopia after Christmas of 1881 and finds herself almost immediately caught up in another baffling case with her flatmate and friend, consulting detective Nicholas Wilde. After a mysterious and paranoid mammal sends a telegram begging for help, the two must put an end to a series of attempted murders before it's too late.
1. Chapter 1

I returned to Zootopia on Boxing Day of 1881 still in a state of high Christmas cheer after a fortnight spent on holiday with my family. Although the sprawling farmhouse in the quiet little village of Bunny Burrows was my birthplace and would always hold a piece of my heart, it was no longer my home. That I should consider the flat in the city I shared with an extraordinary fox my home that I would long to return to is something I would most likely have dismissed as impossible a mere three months before, when I had arrived in the city entirely unmoored. Following my injury in service of Queen and country abroad, and the resulting dismissal from the medical corps, I had taken a position at a teaching hospital in Zootopia when it had seemed the best use of my hard-earned skills while I continued my recovery. It had been in searching for reasonably priced lodgings that what I now consider one of the most fortuitous events in my life occurred—I made the acquaintance of Nicholas Wilde, consulting detective. Following my involvement in a case of his, which I hope to someday publish the incredible details of, I had come to consider him a dear friend.

It was for his sake that as I trudged up the snow-covered steps to our set of rooms, my cane in one paw and a heavy package in the other, it made my heart glad to hear the sound of a violin being played poorly. I took a moment to appreciate the cacophony as I dug out my key, my breath coming out in little puffs like a locomotive and the gently falling snow sticking to the fur of my long ears. When I opened the door, the sight that met my eyes was much as I had imagined it to be. A little ferret kit, her eyes screwed shut in a grim expression of intense concentration, was attempting to cajole something like music from the over-sized violin she held clutched tightly beneath her chin. Next to where she stood in front of the merrily crackling fireplace, Nicholas Wilde sat in his favourite chair.

His features, lean and angular as was typical for his species even when softened by his winter coat of fur, were set in a contemplative mien. Although he wore a fine maroon smoking jacket, his pipe seemed entirely forgotten where it rested on the small table to the side of his chair. The ferret had given no reaction to my entrance but Wilde's triangular ears had flickered briefly in my direction at the sound of the door being opened and he clapped his paws. "We shall stop here for to-day, Molly," he said, "I believe Dr. Hopps has arrived with your payment."

Molly eagerly, though still with a reverential amount of care, set the violin and the bow aside, and ran towards me, her face split by an enormous smile and her paws flashing through sign language so rapidly that I could scarcely catch the few signs I had learned. Although the ferret was about as grubby as she ever was, the scarf she perpetually wore to disguise the twisted scar on her neck and her dress both soiled and stained, I did not resist the embrace that she drew me into. Molly was a member of what I had termed Wilde's Barker Street Irregulars, and her help had been instrumental in the solution of the first case I had accompanied Wilde on. I looked over her head, wryly noting that it would not be too much longer before she was taller than me, and gazed at Wilde askance. "Payment?" I asked, doing my best to sound bewildered.

Wilde chuckled as he unfolded himself from his chair, rising to his full height. Not even his loose-fitting smoking jacket could hide how slim he was, and his brilliantly green eyes positively sparkled with amusement as he took up his pipe and lit it. "Your concern for my entertainment in your absence was touching, though entirely unnecessary. That you endeavoured with Molly to find ways of driving me to distraction was a rather rudimentary deduction."

I laughed, glad to see him in good cheer. He was, of course, entirely correct that I had arranged for Molly to take lessons from him, for I had been truly worried as to the lengths that boredom might drive him to without my moderating influence. After the excitement of the first case in which I had seen him work, when he had recovered an absolute fortune in gold which all the power of the police could not, it had been something of a disappointment for him when no cases of a similar calibre had presented themselves. Even the business with the Red-Furred League, though nearly as baffling to the police, had done little enough to engage his keen mind.

Indeed, while I doubt that there is another mammal alive capable of such patience while stalking his quarry with a single-minded intensity that not even his distant ancestors could have matched, I also doubted any other mammal alive chaffed so at boredom while unengaged. "You have me quite red-pawed," I said, shaking my head as I pulled an orange and a few coins from my pocket to give Molly.

The ferret dropped me a quick curtsy as she accepted the items and then was out of the flat like a shot. I watched from the window as Molly cheerfully skipped through the snow that was blanketing the city under a brilliantly clean layer of pure white, softening the hard angles of buildings and hiding the refuse in the gutters. Carriages and pedestrians were already cutting slushy paths through the streets, but for the moment the illusion of purity held. "You had a happy Christmas, I hope?" I remarked as I watched Molly vanish from sight.

From where he had moved to stand beside me, Wilde sighed contentedly. "Well enough, I suppose. I solved one or two trifling matters that are hardly worth speaking about."

I turned to look at my friend more closely. His idea of a trifling matter sometimes bore little resemblance to what other mammals would consider one; if he had caught Guy Fox about to light his barrel of gunpowder Wilde would have likely considered it a dull affair unless it involved a particularly clever bit of ratiocination. Still, he seemed hale and hearty enough and I allowed him to continue. "I see you have passed a pleasant Christmas, at least, even if you had to peel potatoes. With rather less skill than I might expect of a surgeon, I might add, but I suppose your mother's baked aubergine made up for the trouble."

When I gaped at Wilde in surprise, he continued. "It was quite considerate of your family to see you off at the train station to-day, and I expect your carriage ride back to our flat was rather less pleasant than the one to the Bunny Burrows station."

I had seen Wilde's powers of deduction at work on many occasions, but I didn't think anything matched the amazement I felt when those powers were applied to me. He was correct in every detail and I could do little more than shake my head. "You have read me like a book," I said, "Though I confess I cannot guess how."

"It was a trivial series of deductions," Wilde replied, though I thought I could see him preening in delight at my reaction, "That you peeled potatoes is writ in the small cuts in the fingers of your left paw. Peeling potatoes leaves distinctive marks on the paw opposite the one holding the knife; I know you are right-pawed. That you are somewhat less dexterous—"

He paused a moment to smile at his little joke before continuing, "—with a paring knife than a scalpel is evident in both the number and depths of the cuts in your left paw. They are quite recent, too, and Christmas dinner is the logical deduction."

"And that my mother baked aubergine?" I asked.

"Well, you would not have enjoyed a Christmas goose, as I did, but in much the same way that the remains of my Christmas dinner are evident on the sideboard, yours are evident in the pocket of your jacket."

My mother had made me an enormous sandwich, stuffed nearly to bursting with leftover aubergine and smothered in mushroom gravy, to take with me on the train and I still had more than half the sandwich left in its twist of waxed-paper. I pulled the still bulging sandwich from my pocket and Wilde nodded in satisfaction at the proof his deduction was correct. "You could never have seen it in my pocket," I protested.

Wilde smiled. "Indeed I could not. I could certainly smell it, though, and you have a dab of gravy at the corner of your mouth."

He gestured vaguely at his own face as he spoke and I quickly pulled out my handkerchief to remove the stain from my own. "I suppose you could assume, from what I've mentioned of my family, that they saw me off, but I confess that I am completely lost as to how you could comment on my carriage rides with such accuracy."

Wilde clucked his tongue. "I did not assume, my dear doctor. The evidence is on your trousers, which answer both lines of inquiry in part, with the clock and your coat providing the rest."

At his words, I looked down at my trousers, which were somewhat splattered with mud and slush. "You see?" he said, "You have a number of stains from sticky little paws about the legs of your trousers—your younger relatives' embraces after enjoying a Christmas orange, no doubt. But those stains are atop the few speckles of mud you got on your trousers when you left your carriage upon arrival at the Bunny Burrows station. The remaining stains are much fresher, from which I can gather that your carriage ride to the station was in a fully-enclosed cabin, while I would say that from the Zootopia station to our flat you took a dog-cart which left you rather splattered in a pattern completely unique to that conveyance. Finally, while your train arrived two hours ago, should I be remembering the schedule properly, that you are only now arriving with such a build-up of snow atop your shoulders tells me it was an unpleasant endeavour."

"Well," I said, and I opened the parcel I had left on the table to withdraw a small box wrapped in gaily coloured paper, "Perhaps, having your deductions so entirely correct you can attempt one more. Happy Christmas, Wilde."

As I gave the present over to him, I was rewarded with a rare sight indeed—my friend completely lost for words. At last, he accepted the box, holding it delicately in his paws. "This is most kind of you, Dr. Hopps," he said quietly, and in his expression, for but the briefest of moments, I fancied that I saw the same simple joy that had illuminated the faces of my nieces and nephews when they pulled apart their Christmas crackers.

The moment passed, though, and Wilde gave the box a gently experimental shake, listening gravely to the delicate tinkling sound it made. A thoughtful expression, no different from the one I had seen him wear when pondering mysteries no other mammal would have been able to untangle, spread across his face. "Four glass jars, quite full I should think," he said, turning his gaze to me as though looking for confirmation.

I said nothing and he continued his musings. "The contents cannot be liquid, for they do not slosh about, but neither can they be any granular sort of solid for I cannot hear any sort of movement. Jam, I would suppose, from your family's farm."

"But can you deduce the flavour?" I asked, my tone rich with mock severity.

"Only what I hope it to be," he said, gently removing the wrapping paper without tearing it and pulling out one of the jars.

"The fruit is well out of season, but I thought you might yet enjoy the jam," I said as he studied the jar.

Wilde had, of course, been completely right that I had gifted him four jars of my mother's finest jams. Quite contrary to what I might have expected, when first we met, Wilde had something of a taste for sweets despite his slender build and the inborn preference of predators for more savoury fare. Indeed, the fox looked delighted as he read the label made in my mother's smooth script. "Blueberry!" he cried, "Oh, I shall have to ration it."

He carefully slid the jar back into its box and looked down at me. "Thank you, Hopps," he said, and then he pulled something from the pocket of his voluminous smoking jacket and gave it to me.

It was circular and a bit wider than my palm, wrapped in plain brown paper held together with a bit of twine. "Happy Christmas," he said.

"Thank you," I replied, even as my fingers began picking at the twine, "I'm afraid that I cannot reproduce your feat of deduction, but—"

I stopped speaking as I opened the package and saw what was inside. It was my turn to be speechless, for what Wilde had given me was the single most remarkable gift I could ever remember receiving. When I was a kit, each Christmas had been marked with an orange, a cracker, and perhaps a piece or two of hard candy, in much the same way that my nieces and nephews had celebrated the holiday only the day before. I had always been quite happy with those presents myself and had never dreamed of being given something so nice as Wilde's present. It was a magnificent sterling silver pocket watch in a little nest of velvet, its key secured with a loop of ribbon. I recognized it instantly, for it had the distinctive design of the solar system engraved on the lid surrounded by the motto " _E pur si muove_."

It was the watch that Wilde had purchased at Weaselton's shop in the course of the first investigation I had ever accompanied him on, but when I pressed the latch to open the watch I saw that my monogram had been engraved on the interior of the lid. "I thought you might like it, for you did choose it yourself," Wilde said as my silence dragged on.

I closed the lid of the watch and looked at him. "This is the single nicest present I've ever received," I said as I set the watch down.

Wilde turned his head to the side as I clasped his arm in both of mine, a small smile playing across his muzzle. "I am happy to hear so," he said, and after my embrace ended he retired back to his chair.

"But I am certain you must be weary from your trip. Please, do not allow me to impose upon you."

Although I did indeed feel somewhat worn out by the tribulations of my travels, the wounded leg that was the lasting reminder of my service beginning to throb incessantly, it had been a fortnight since I had seen or spoken to my friend. Rather than retiring to my bed-room I took the chair at the fire opposite his. "I would rather warm myself with both the fire and your good company," I remarked, "And hear of what has come to pass in the city in my absence."

We spent a pleasant few hours in idle conversation and, after our conversation had wound down and it had gone so completely dark outside that the gentle glow through the windows of the streetlights off the snow was only dimly visible above the light of the fire, I left my chair to light the gas lamps in our parlour and to retrieve my writing materials from my bed-room. Following the first case on which I had accompanied Wilde, I had been quite bitterly disappointed to see that not a single one of the newspapers which gave the particulars of the case so much as mentioned my companion, to say nothing of giving him credit.

Indeed, the story did little more than fizzle like a damp squib, kept alive only by the debates in Parliament brought up by a junior member of the opposition party who had fiercely devoted herself to the cause of banking regulation reform to prevent another such financial catastrophe should a similar robbery occur. Although before taking up the case Wilde had remarked upon his belief that his aid would pass unremarked, I still found it galling to see him correct. When I had finished my lesson plans, and faced with well more than a month with little to keep my evenings occupied outside of the time I spent with Wilde, I had therefore devoted myself to doing what I could, in my meagre way, to get him the credit that he so richly deserved.

I had shared my first drafts of what I had dubbed "A Study in Gold" with him about three weeks previously, and while Wilde had made no quarrel with my desire to publish it, I confess that I had found myself somewhat disappointed by his reaction. When I had first showed him my writing, done so neatly as I could with pen, he had glanced it over only briefly. "I am afraid, dear doctor, that you have taken what could be described completely with but a paragraph or two and stretched the whole matter out unnecessarily. What truth these pages contain is almost entirely obscured by the romanticism with which you have injected the facts."

I was, I admit, somewhat annoyed by his criticism, as I will confess that no small part of my desire to see him receive the credit he deserved was to please his not inconsiderable vanity. It was, therefore, with somewhat more heat than the matter deserved that I had replied, "I made no attempt to tamper with the facts."

Wilde had inclined his head towards me at my words, taking a long draw of his pipe before at last replying. "If you have erred, then, it is perhaps in attempting to make the matter appealing to the general public. It may play well to the desires of readers for whom the cold and unemotional matter of deduction is entirely unappealing, though I think they may be frustrated by your sometimes colourful turns of phrase and your tendency to leave matters unresolved where your chapters end."

"Have you taken a turn at literary criticism, then?" I had asked, my tone somewhat teasing.

While Wilde's words had no small bite to them he spoke with a playful sort of half-smile upon his face and no rancour in his voice, and by that I knew that my writing had pleased him no matter how inaccurate a reflection he thought it to be of his work. "Now _that_ would be a career to drive me mad. The writing I shall leave to you, Hopps," Wilde had said, "Though I cannot guess if there exists a publisher willing to print your words."

Despite his scepticism, I had kept at my little project, and after the gap my holiday at the family farm had forced I fell back to work eagerly, laboriously writing up my words as Wilde played his violin with far greater skill than his young pupil, incorporating a mixture of my favourite pieces. The pleasant evening was interrupted, however, when there came a purposeful rap at the door. "A visitor?" I remarked as Wilde set his violin aside and got up to answer the door, "Are you expecting someone?"

I, of course, was expecting no callers myself; I was still a few days away from my first class in my new-found profession of teaching, and while I had attended a meeting or two with the other staff members of the teaching hospital it was quite unlikely that any would seek me out so late at night.

"I am not," Wilde replied, and in the warm glow of the gaslights I could see how curiosity illuminated his features, making every movement purposeful as he made his way to the door and opened it to expose a visitor quite unlike what I had expected.

Rather than a mammal in need of Wilde's services as a consulting detective, their breast heaving with emotion as their features took on a cast of desperation, it was only a young goat holding an envelope before him. "Telegram for Mr. Wilde," he said, and was off the instant Wilde had tipped him, scarcely pausing to give a tug at his hat.

Wilde opened the telegram on his way back to his chair, and I could see his eyes shuttling back and forth at high speed as he read the message. "Now this is interesting," he murmured, stroking his muzzle thoughtfully, "Hopps, what do you make of this?"

He thrust the message into my paws and I read, my eyes widening as I absorbed the extraordinary words. I had no doubts that he would take the case, but I cannot imagine that even he could have guessed at the absolute furore that it would eventually cause.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

I'm very excited to return to the world of 19th century Zootopia as I imagined it in the story that this one is a sequel to, "A Study in Gold," and I hope that the same is true for you! I tried to write this story in such a way that reading "A Study in Gold" is not strictly necessary, in much the same way that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original works may be read in any order and still stand on their own merits as self-contained stories even if there are elements of the overall narrative that only make sense in the context of the others. I've somewhat wryly dubbed the series of stories that form the over-arching plot "Simplicity Itself," which all explore the relationship between consulting detective Nicholas Wilde and Dr. Judith Hopps while also telling what are hopefully engaging mysteries.

Therefore, a portion of this chapter is devoted to what hopefully works as a recap of events of the previous story: Dr. Hopps was an army doctor, injured during the Second Anglo-Afghan War and subsequently released from service. Arriving in Zootopia to take up a teaching position at a hospital, her financial situation required her to find a place to stay she could split with a roommate. Consulting detective Nicholas Wilde was that roommate and with assistance from Dr. Judith Hopps, he successfully solved the mystery of the theft of a large quantity of gold from a bank.

This story picks up a few months after that story ended, beginning on December 26, 1881. I try to research my historical AUs as much as possible, and this one is no exception, so the rest of these author's notes will be devoted to providing some historical details and context. I've tried not to make it mandatory to read these notes if all you're interested in is the story itself, but I've had enough people tell me that they enjoy my author's notes that I'll keep providing these details.

One thing that I'm doing in this story that I didn't do in its predecessor is using the British spelling for words to match the style of Doyle's works as much as possible. As this version of Zootopia is inspired by the original Sherlock Holmes stories, most of which are set in the London of the 19th century, it seemed appropriate, and it also means that in this story I've attempted to get the little cultural touches of the time and location right.

Boxing Day isn't really a holiday that's celebrated in the US, but it originated in the UK and is still celebrated there and in other commonwealth countries. Boxing Day always falls on December 26th, and it likely arose from servants getting the day after Christmas off, having to work Christmas day itself for their wealthier employers, who would reward them with gifts as thanks for their service. It's a bank holiday nowadays in countries that celebrate it, so most (but not all) people have it off.

Molly the street urchin being a member of the Barker Street Irregulars is a reference to the Baker Street Irregulars of the original Sherlock stories, although I've used 221B Barker Street as Wilde's and Hopps's address for the pun. She's a character of my own creation and did indeed play a significant role in the previous story. Wilde, like Sherlock, is an excellent violin player; Molly is not.

The reference to a case involving the Red-Furred League is a reference to the Sherlock Holmes story "The Red-Headed League." One of the things that I enjoy about the Sherlock Holmes stories is the sense that we only see a fraction of the cases that Sherlock takes on, which I feel makes the world of the stories feel larger.

Guy Fox is a reference to Guy Fawkes, who attempted to blow up Parliament in 1605, leading to Guy Fawkes Night being celebrated on November 5th in memory of his failure. As Guy Fawkes was a Catholic and the UK was mostly Protestant, the celebrations have sometimes veered into anti-Catholic sentiment. As I imagine Guy Fox to be, as the name implies, a fox, it helps explain some of the general anti-predator prejudice in this setting.

Aubergine, in addition to being the name for a dark purple color, is a somewhat old-fashioned word for eggplant. As Wilde rightly points out, the Hopps wouldn't eat a goose, and it seemed an appropriate substitution for a Christmas dinner. Baked eggplant with mushroom gravy sounds pretty good to me, at least, and it could be made without any meat products.

Wilde's joke about Dr. Hopps's dexterity is a small one, derived from the fact that the word "dexterous" to mean that someone is skilled with their hands comes from the Latin word "dexter" that means "right," as in right-handed. Incidentally, the Latin word for left gives us the word "sinister." As a left-handed person myself, I'll admit that I'm somewhat amused by the fact that my handedness implies that I'm evil.

That Dr. Hopps has a distinctive series of cuts on her left paw as a result of peeling what was presumably a lot of potatoes to feed her family is a reference to the Great Brain series of books, where Tom is caught having his friends help him peel potatoes rather than doing it alone when they all have the distinctive cuts.

Wilde having a goose left on his sideboard wouldn't be good food safety practice nowadays, but sideboards were very much in fashion in the 19th century. Sideboards were small tables for the purpose of serving food, and the French word for them gave us the term "buffet" for serve-yourself meals.

Oranges are a traditional Christmas stocking stuffer dating back hundreds of years, when citrus fruits were considerably rarer and more expensive than they are now. As I imagine the Hopps family to be somewhat prosperous farmers but far from wealthy (something not helped by how many of them there are), having their Christmas presents limited to the kits and only to oranges, crackers, and hard candy was appropriate for the time period.

Christmas crackers themselves are a staple of Christmas in the UK that are somewhat uncommon in the US, and doesn't refer to saltine crackers or the like. Christmas crackers are little cardboard tubes filled with small and cheap presents and covered in brightly colored paper that comes apart when either end is pulled, making a cracking noise and leaving one end with the tube containing the gifts. They were first sold in the 1840s, making their appearance here in 1881 period-appropriate.

A dogcart is a real type of carriage, and as Wilde implies is not enclosed. It's a small, light carriage that gets its name from having a compartment for holding a retriever dog so that the carriage could be used for sport shooting. In my previous story I implied that "dog" is a somewhat impolite word for a mammal that's a member of the canid family, so its use here does say something about the setting.

In the UK, blueberries can generally be harvested from June to August, so Dr. Hopps is right to say that the fruit is out of season. Real foxes do tend to enjoy berries and other fruits, so it's not simply in reference to the movie that Nick expresses an interest in blueberry jam.

The watch that Wilde gives Judy, and the details of how he purchased it from Weaselton, are described in chapter 10 of "A Study in Gold." "E pur si muove" is Italian for "And yet it moves," words that are attributed to Galileo immediately after he was forced to recant his belief that the Earth moved around the sun rather than the sun around the Earth. Dr. Hopps did indeed choose the watch, although I'll leave it to the reader to make conclusions about how well both characters did in getting gifts for the other.

Squibs, meaning a small explosive, have been used for hundreds of years going back at least to the 18th century when they were used to assist with mining.

In this story, and in my previous one, I make the meta-fictional conceit that Dr. Hopps is the one actually writing the stories, in much the same way that almost all of Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories are written as though Watson is the author. For that reason, one of the things that I considered is the impact and influence of the stories that Dr. Hopps writes. As this story starts, she's in the process of writing the previous story; I did plot out how this all fits into the larger setting, which will continue to develop in both this and subsequent sequels. Wilde's criticisms of Hopps's writing serves two purposes; it's both an homage to the original Sherlock Holmes stories, in which Sherlock frequently took a dim view of Watson's writing (see, for example, "The Adventure of the Copper Beeches") and it's to allow me to poke fun at myself. His remark about cliffhangers is remarkably apropos, wouldn't you say?

I'm also very happy to have some wonderful cover art for this story that I commissioned from yelnatsdraws over on DeviantArt. She's an incredible artist and I love the work that she did; I definitely recommend checking out her other work, too.

As always, thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!

 **Addendum:**

I'm very sorry to be publishing this, the first chapter of my next story, instead of chapter 40 of "…And All That Jazz." However, that I'm not publishing that chapter doesn't mean that I've lost interest in continuing the story or that I won't finish it. It means that my computer unfortunately died today, and with it the remaining chapters of "…And All That Jazz." I do keep backups, though, so as soon as I manage to repair my computer I'll post the next chapter of that story. I had the first chapter of this story all typed up and ready to go, saved in my drafts on A3O because I was playing around and making sure that the series would link it up with the previous story properly, meaning that I was able to write this addendum and post it from my phone.

In all the time that I've been posting chapters I've never missed an update, and my desire to keep that streak going means that I'm giving you what I have available. I apologize again, and hope that it won't be more than a day or two before I can post the next chapter of "…And All That Jazz."


	2. Chapter 2

The telegram, so far as I can recall, ran as follows:

 _Mr. Wilde. I beg ask for your aid in a matter of life and death. I have come by an enormous inheritance and my half siblings mean to do me in. One or more have tried already I am sure. I can pay whatever you ask. If I have your interest peaked meet me at the Chateau Talpen at 4 PM December 27. Dr. Hopps may come to._

I frowned as I considered the words upon the page, trying to think as my friend might. I glanced over the sheet to look at Wilde, who seemed quite content to lounge in his chair, his focus solely on his pipe as he awaited my answer to his question. "The Chateau Talpen is one of the most luxurious hotels in the city," I said slowly, "I remember an article in the paper claiming so, at least."

"Indeed it is," Wilde replied, a touch dryly, "Although I suspect a mountain goat's opinion may hold something of a bias towards Tundra Town."

It was a sign of Wilde's well-ordered mind that not only did he recall the same article that I had read but also the species of the author who had written it. I had never visited the hotel myself, nor had I spent much time in Tundra Town. Indeed, while I had made it a point of visiting each of the city's districts when first I moved to Zootopia, I was still so reduced by my injury and subsequent illness that I had found my sojourn to the perpetually frozen mountain top a most unpleasant experience. Still, on those nights when strong winds cleared away Zootopia's dun-coloured fog I had seen the lights of Tundra Town twinkle dimly high above the city. "Clearly, then, whoever wrote you this telegram is a mammal of wealth now, even should it be a recent development."

Wilde nodded. "And what else can you deduce?" he asked.

"I could make several more deductions, I think," I said, "Such as that the author is unlettered and ill-acquainted with their half-siblings, but I should not like to spoil your fun by robbing you of the opportunity to prove your cleverness."

Wilde's eyes seemed to sparkle as he turned his focus from his pipe to me, and a small smile touched his face. "Why, Dr. Hopps," he said, "It sounds almost as though you think me conceited."

I laughed, unable to keep my face as perfectly neutral as the joke demanded when I replied. "That would be your deduction, dear Wilde, not mine."

"Hmm," Wilde murmured in a wordless reply, "And with such a promising start, Dr. Hopps, you are sure you do not wish to continue?"

I nodded; after a fortnight spent apart from my friend I really was quite eager to see him demonstrate his peerless mental faculties. Wilde stood, the silk of his smoking jacket billowing out as he began to pace near the hearth.

"Every mammal is a palimpsest," he began, and his voice had taken on a lecturing tone, "The shadow of what one has been is never truly erased from what one is, and our author is no exception."

I found myself wondering, as I watched Wilde begin his explanation, at what sort of shadows lurked beneath the collected surface of his being that I had not the ability to see. I found myself considering whether his Christmas gift to me meant that the watch he had carried when first we met, the inside cover of which had a vixen painted with exquisite skill, had been repaired and was once more in his pocket. Before I could pursue that thought any further, Wilde continued.

"You are correct, I think, that the mammal who wrote this telegram is unlettered, but I would go further and say he does not wish to seem so. A mammal may beg for my aid, or he may ask for it," Wilde said, "But never both. It is a truly awkward construction, is it not?"

"It is indeed," I replied, "One that sounds rather more like an uneducated mammal attempting to sound distinguished than one well-learned."

"Quite so," said Wilde with a nod of approval that I agreed with his supposition, "Although the spelling error of 'to' instead of 'too' might possibly be an error by the telegraphist, it is the stock of their trade to send messages precisely as written. One error, perhaps, could be understood, but as my interest is not a mountain to be peaked I think we must conclude that our author's education was not long."

"Although that does not mean that our author is unintelligent," I said, and Wilde nodded once.

"It never does to underestimate a mammal," Wilde said, "As well you should know. Woe to anyone who questions either your aim or the steel in your spine!"

He had spoken the words with something of the dramatic flair with which he was apt to take on, but I thought he meant the words truly enough, even as a half-smile touched his lips. "It is a lesson our author may have taken to heart," he continued, "At least, so far as it comes more generally to underestimating a mammal rather than to you specifically. From the wording, it is clear that there are at least two half-siblings, and I would say no less than three, and the author either does not know them well enough to guess at whom among them might have murder in their hearts or suspects them all equally."

Wilde paused in his recitation to briefly frown. "Of course, it is always possible that the danger may be solely in the author's head. I have found that mammals who acquire their wealth suddenly may be inclined to jump at shadows. The author has, I think, attempted to contact the police but has insufficient evidence for their involvement."

I had followed Wilde's reasoning well enough to that point, but at this last I jumped in. "How can you know this?" I asked.

"Why, by the presence of your name, of course," he said, "Although you scribble away at that story of yours, you have not yet published it, and you have not accompanied me on more than four or five cases. The author obviously knows that you sometimes go along with my little investigations, and the secrecy now suggests that we are not dealing with a prior client. Therefore, the author must know either a former client—doubtful, considering the natures of the cases you have participated in—or else have been given our names following a fruitless attempt to appeal to the police. I daresay Constable Clawhauser may be responsible."

"Most astute of you," I said, recalling the prestige the cheetah so clearly held Wilde in.

Wilde chuckled. "It is kind of you to say so," he said, "But it was really all quite simple."

I suspect that had the telegram been as pithy and puckish as Major General Neighpier's one-word message "Peccavi" Wilde would have deduced no less than he had, but he modestly waved my praise away with a single paw.

Of all the conflicts that made up Wilde's nature I think it was the one between his confidence and his humility that was the most fascinating to me. I never quite knew which of them was what he truly felt, should it be one of the two at all, and I suspected that there was some vulnerability deep inside him I had only ever caught glimpses of, like something seen out of the corner of my eye. "Simple for you, perhaps," I said, "Shall we be calling upon our author to-morrow?"

I was very much eager to involve myself in the affair; although my teaching schedule would be light as I began my new profession in the new year, I confess that I wondered what it would do for my friendship with Wilde and if our association might weaken when I had more to fill my time than plotting out lesson plans. It is the nature of life that so many ends are not realized until they have gone past; on the day that I had been shot I had awoken with no knowledge that it was to be the very last day I was capable of running. To think that Wilde and I might drift apart while remaining roommates was a gloomy thought, one quite outside the tracks my mind normally ran along, but I had never had a friend like Wilde before.

I was disappointed, therefore, when he heaved a sigh. "I should very much like to meet the author myself but I most unfortunately have a prior engagement. You do recall the matter with Mr. Tolar?"

It took me a moment to place the name, but I recalled a case that had taken Wilde an hour or two of deduction a month and a half earlier. "You mean the lion who was forging chirographs?" I asked.

Wilde nodded once. "As well as what were claimed to be holographic wills, yes," he said, "I have promised dear Inspector Trunkaby my presence as a sort of expert witness."

He looked down at the claws of one paw with a modesty I suspected was mostly feigned. "My monograph on the topic of forgery has been rather well-received, I must say," he said, and I saw no reason to doubt him.

Indeed, in many ways Wilde was the negative image of a typical fox, his natural cunning turned towards upholding the law rather than breaking it. In much the same way his word was his bond in a manner most unlike what most mammals would expect of a predator, let alone a fox. If he had given his word to Inspector Trunkaby that he would appear to provide testimony at a particular time, there was no question that he would in fact appear. It was a most unfortunate state of affairs that mammals could hold unjustifiable prejudices against him; Wilde was certainly no more responsible for the conduct of other foxes than I was for the conduct of other bunnies. "Well, certainly you must go as promised," I said, "But do you mean to send me in your place?"

By the way that Wilde clapped his paws together once, quite briskly, I knew I had divined his intent. "Should you be willing," he said, "For our author did say that you were welcome, after all. If you should be so kind as to meet with this mammal and provide guidance to my humble place of work, I would be much obliged."

As he spoke, Wilde gestured to take in our parlour, which was not only where he conducted the majority of his consulting but also a peculiar sort of laboratory. Although quite a bit of his glassware and delicate philosophical instruments had been ruined, some two months prior, some had survived, and he had laboured on his collection since. A sturdy table, the surface charred and spotted where acids had dripped, commanded a large part of the room, and a bewildering array of flasks and jars with unidentifiable contents covered most of its surface. Pieces of paper with diagrams I could make neither heads nor tails of had been pinned into the wall above the table, which was (to our landlady's unspoken but obvious disapproval) pock-marked where many more pins had once done the same.

Although I could not claim any real familiarity with the methods of the proper authorities I was quite certain that no officer of the law, not even the dour Inspector Trunkaby, had put to use the methods of science and deduction that were for my friend his livelihood. Or at least, not with quite so much skill. "I am certainly willing to do so," I replied, and my enthusiasm was entirely un-forced.

I loved my family dearly, and I would not have gone into the medical practice had I not had a passion for it, but there was nothing I had ever done that felt quite so engaging as assisting Wilde in the resolution of the cases he took. His own enthusiasm for investigation seemed practically infectious, as did his lows at his infrequent failures (for even so clever a fox as he could not solve every matter put before him) and at the lulls of activity that left little to occupy his time. I might be so bold as to claim that I knew his mind as well as any mammal alive, for I did not think that he had a friend in the world besides me, and I thought that by asking me to act in his place he found it an interesting case indeed.

"Then I am indeed much obliged," Wilde said, with a nod of his head, "I confess that I foresee it being a dull trip for you, although perhaps it would still be best for you to keep your service revolver in your pocket. Should our author be more than merely querulous, it may help to show you take the matter seriously."

As events would eventually transpire Wilde was quite wrong about it being a dull trip, and I was quite glad to have brought my revolver.

* * *

When I set out the following day for the tramway station that offered the fastest and when the weather was fair the most scenic route from Zootopia proper to Tundra Town, it was in a brougham that Wilde had arranged. Although the day was no colder than the previous, a biting wind had picked up that would have made either a dog-cart or a trap an exercise in misery. Even in the brougham the wind rattled at the windows and tore away the words of the cheerful horse pulling it such that even my sensitive ears lost entire sentences. If the cold or wind had bothered him he did not show it, though when he pulled a carriage to a stop in front of the tramway station he gave me a word of caution as I gave him his fee. "It'll be a hard snow today, I reckon," said he, "If you've business in Tundra Town, and I'm sure you must, best be prepared."

"I'll mind the weather," I said, but I did not take his words to heart.

Ever since a bullet had pierced my leg, I had always known when the weather would change, even before the clouds did it seemed. My leg would ache abominably when rain or snow was coming, and as I set out to catch my tram my leg ached no more than it usually did, more a persistent numbness and void of sensation than any true pain. The tramway station was not nearly as large or quite as grand as the train station in which I had returned to Zootopia the previous day, or even one of the Underground stations that connected the city in a vast web.

Although the tramway station itself was quite plain, long and low with many archways that led inside, the spectacle of the great cable system more than made up for it. That day was, as I recall, quite foggy, and the enormous braided steel cable, thicker around it seemed than I was, vanished into the haze. The mountain that it connected to was quite invisible, and I could see only dimly the light of a car perhaps a quarter of the way through its journey.

There could not have been more than half-a-dozen other mammals sharing the car with me, which was quite spacious for a mammal of my size. The same could not be said for one of the other mammals, a camelopard who seemed to be governess to another camelopard too young to be more than seven or eight feet tall. Although her charge was yet short enough to fit comfortably in the car, the governess's long neck had been put through a cunningly-hinged window in the roof, and while I could not see her face from where I sat I imagined it must bear a look of long-suffering at the indignities of a world too small for a mammal of her height. Even with the opening in the roof, which along with the walls was all large though somewhat grimy panels of glass in frames of white-painted iron, the car was quite warm thanks to a brazier set into the support that stood in the centre of the car and connected to the great steel cable above us.

The car itself was in the shape of a hexagon, the seats arranged in benches that faced outwards towards the great glass windows. Once the car was too far away from the enormous series of pulleys that kept the cable in constant motion to hear their groans and squeals of complaint, the ride was so quiet that it seemed as though we had gone aloft in a great balloon. As we rose ever higher above the city, the only sound the conversations of my fellow passengers and the occasional gust of wind that set the car into a rocking motion, I wished that the day had been clear. As it was, all I could see through the dense fog were the glowing spots that marked streetlights and windows that had already been lit in advance of the rapidly setting sun.

When we had risen high enough, however, I quite forgot my disappointment as I saw Tundra Town coming into view. The air was somewhat clearer above the city, and Mount Collier loomed impossibly large, the cable that the tramway moved along seeming as insubstantial as a spider's thread where it connected to the mountain's bulk. In the fading light of day, the few buildings of Tundra Town gleamed like beaten gold, the ice coating their surfaces glowing red-orange. There were not so many mammals willing to live at such altitude, where to my knowledge the snow had never melted in living memory, or at least not so many able to afford it. Tundra Town, it seemed, was home more to hotels and ski lodges than to private residences, and those residences were home to the fabulously wealthy wishing to escape the city below. Indeed, the air was far cleaner than that of the city even on its best days, and the chill ensured that no refuse ever rotted in the streets. Although I could not see where the treacherous road that wound its way back and forth up the mountain began in the city below, and could barely even see the road itself, the lights of a few carriages taking the arduous path were visible like fireflies in the summer.

The station that the tramway stopped at had likely been a perfect twin of the one in Zootopia when both were newly built, and though the journey had taken the better part of an hour and the light of day was vanishing the difference was still obvious. No soot blackened the brick walls, and the road beyond the station was far wider and smoother than any I had ever seen in the heart of the city, with tall streetlamps placed at regular intervals like proud sentinels of wrought iron. I could have hired a cab, for there were many fine four-wheelers outside the station, the horses who pulled them bundled against the cold and waiting for fares. However, though the wind was if anything more biting atop the mountain than in the city, my crippled leg had begun to stiffen as the tramway made its ascent. I had attributed the pain to a combination of the rarefied air and the altitude and resolved to walk it off, for the Chateau Talpen was no more than a quarter mile from the tramway station.

If anything, however, the ache in my leg only worsened as I made my walk, and I found myself quite glad to have my cane, for snow had begun to fall, which hid the treacherous slicks of ice on the street from view. Though I was tempted to stop at a chemist's shop I passed and purchase a dose of salicin, I trudged on until at last my destination stood before me.

The Chateau Talpen was a magnificent building, a sturdy foundation of quarried stone blocks that seemed planted into the heart of the mountain topped elegantly with cunningly-carved wooden arches surrounding its great bulk. Magnificent gables, shingled with perfectly even planks offset by verdigris flashing, made the roof a sight to behold, and craning my neck upwards I saw it all terminate in an enormous copper weathercock made small only by the distance it stood off the ground. Snow clung to the eaves like the decorations of a gingerbread house. A reindeer, seemingly indifferent to either the cold or the wind, stood in front of the great doors to the hotel, which were at least twelve feet tall with the image of an edelweiss flower carved into them in a great circle wider even than my arms fully outstretched. The reindeer, who wore a porter's uniform with buttons of gleaming brass, doffed his cap as he opened one of the doors. It swung noiselessly on its enormous hinges, and the warmth and light that escaped the hotel's lobby was welcome indeed.

The lobby of the Chateau Talpen could have compared to the finest from any other part of the world, I felt, let alone the city. It was long and tall, the floor of smoothly polished stone covered with plush carpets woven with diamond patterns. An enormous fireplace of rough stone dominated the wall opposite the entrance, and it was the heat and flickering light of this fire that I had found so welcome. The ceiling all but vanished in the coming gloom of night, the tops of the massive wooden pillars that supported it vague and indistinct. Their bases connected to the floor with sturdy and plainly visible iron fittings which matched an upper level balcony that looked out over the reception desk, the front of which was carved with beautiful forest scenes. As I approached the desk, it occurred to me that the telegram had not said where to wait for the author; there was an elegant restaurant connected to the lobby, but I thought it likely that the author of the telegram was staying in the hotel.

In the end, I inquired at both the reception desk and at the restaurant if any mammal had passed along instructions for Nicholas Wilde. When the answer came in the negative from both, I decided it best to wait in the lobby, taking up a newspaper and planting myself on a settee near the fire as I stretched out my bad leg. I had arrived nearly twenty minutes before the meeting was to take place and tried not to let my impatience show. When the appointed time had come and gone I found my impatience coloured by irritation, wondering if I had fallen victim to some sort of prank intended for Wilde, or else that I was the victim of a prank of his design. His sense of humour was, I had noted, somewhat peculiar, but I did not think him one for practical jokes, favouring instead words alone.

It was almost half-past the appointed hour, by the hands of the fine watch Wilde had so recently gifted me, when a voice distracted me from my attempt at pretending that I was still reading the newspaper while I was in fact checking the time.

"'Scuse me," a rough voice interrupted, "You're Dr. Hopps then, ain't you?"

The mammal who had called my name was perhaps the queerest I had ever laid eyes upon. He could not be older than thirty but he showed the signs of a life of robust physical labour, his fingers scar-covered and his arms bulging with ropy muscles underneath a fine and yet poorly-fitted suit not quite wide enough across the shoulders. His tie of fine black silk was somewhat askew, the knot clumsily done, and he clutched a battered bowler hat, white with sweat stains, between his hooves. It was his features that were queerest of all, though, for my mind could at first make no sense of him. He stood tall, with a fine coat of sorrel fur, and yet he looked like no equine I had ever seen before. His ears were almost comically long for a horse, drooped in anxiety, but his plug of a head was much too short and far too thick. Despite his size and his well-developed musculature, his hooves were oddly narrow and surprisingly delicate, more so even than a mare's, and his mane was short and yet obviously not trimmed.

I had served in the army with countless horses, for they formed fearsome artillery crews and dauntless fusiliers, but the mammal addressing me looked like none of them. In many aspects he resembled a donkey as much as he did a horse, and at last I realized that he was a sort of mammal I had only ever read about in medical literature. The author of the telegram to Wilde, who I knew was standing before me, was a mule.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

As "…And All that Jazz" ends tomorrow, I thought the occasion deserved a little something before this story takes over its weekly update slot. Starting next week, this story will update on Sundays so there won't be quite so long a wait between chapters.

The hotel in Tundra Town being named the Chateau Talpen is an awful pun on chatzen-talpen, an alternate name for the flower commonly called edelweiss. Edelweiss is an alpine plant found at high altitudes, making it my choice for the pun. In this story, Tundra Town is entirely natural rather than being the product of artificial climate control simply by virtue of being at high altitude. I figure a small high-altitude location would be a decent natural start, and that as Tundra Town expanded (and as technology advanced) powerful refrigeration would be used to artificially expand the district. For now, though, Tundra Town as I imagine it is easily the city's smallest district.

Dr. Hopps somewhat casually mentions that Tundra Town is only visible at night when it's clear, and that would really be a combination of two factors. First, in 1881, lighting would be mostly gas lamps, which aren't as bright as electric lights and consequently aren't as easily visible from far away. Second, as the reference to a dun-colored fog indicates, this version of Zootopia has the same smog problem that 19th century London did. Although the term smog as a portmanteau of smoke and fog wasn't coined until the early 20th century, it was a well-recognized fact of city living in the 19th century. So called pea soup fogs were thick and often yellow-tinged, cutting down visibility even during the day and causing respiratory problems for many people. More than a couple of Sherlock Holmes stories reference the dismal fogs of London, and it seemed appropriate to include that detail here.

The errors in the telegram are, naturally, completely deliberate from me as a writer. Although the correct form of "too" is discussed, the other spelling error is the use of "peaked" instead of "piqued," which are pronounced the same but obviously spelled differently. What Wilde deduces from these errors will be tested shortly once the actual author comes into the story.

The word "palimpsest" is derived from the Ancient Greek word "palímpsēstos," which means "again scraped." As the translation implies, a palimpsest is a document where writing has been applied, scraped off, and then new writing applied. Palimpsests were quite common when parchment was too rare and valuable to waste, and there are many documents where the only surviving copy is a palimpsest. The original writing of many palimpsests is faintly visible, at least until parchments started being scraped clean with pumice which more thoroughly erased the ink.

Detective Wilde's original pocket watch, which was severely damaged when he was beaten up in the course of the investigation in "A Study in Gold" was described in its damaged state in chapter 10 of that story.

"Peccavi" is Latin for "I have sinned" and is used in this chapter to reference one of my favorite bits of wordplay, which audiences in the late 19th century would be familiar with. The setup is this: in 1842, Major General Charles James Napier was in India, and had orders to put an end to a rebel uprising only. However, he ended up conquering the whole of the Sindh Province, and supposedly sent a one word telegram to his superiors afterwards: Peccavi. It's a clever wordplay, as Sindh is a homonym for sinned and by conquering the province he had done something that he shouldn't have. In reality he did not send that telegram; the story was made up as a joke for the popular magazine _Punch_ and first published in 1844. Neighpier, naturally, suggests that in the universe of this story he was a horse.

A chirograph is a document that is written in duplicate or triplicate on a single page, with a wavy border drawn between the segments, typically with the word "chirographum" written along the border. The copies are then cut apart, the borders providing a convenient way of proving that the documents are original if they are compared against each other. A chirograph would be pretty difficult to effectively forge from scratch, but not impossible. Chirographs had largely fallen out of use in the post-medieval period as legal documents got too long and complex to make duplicate or triplicate copies on a single page, but the term is still used more narrowly to apply to Papal decrees that are limited to the administration of the Holy See. However, it wouldn't have been outside the realm of possibility in the 19th century (or even today, considering how common law works) for a centuries-old legal document to still be valid.

A holographic will isn't a will that's a virtual three dimensional image; it's a will that was handwritten and signed by the same person, frequently without a witness as most wills have. Holographic wills are legally binding, but can be harder to prove to be valid than one that's been notarized; forgery is certainly a concern.

In this case, "holo" comes from the Greek word for "whole," and the suffix "gram" means a message; a holographic will is therefore one written entirely by one person's hand. By contrast, the word also applies to its more common modern usage of a virtual image because a hologram contains a whole image. Unlike a photograph, where if you tear it apart you lose part of the image, if a hologram is cut apart it's more like closing the blinds on a window halfway. Although you'd no longer be able to see as much at once, partially closing your blinds doesn't get rid of what's outside your window, and if you look from a different angle you'd still to be able to see what's blocked.

The forger in question being a lion referred to as Mr. Tolar is a reference that works on a couple levels. A tolar was the Czech name for a 16th century silver coin minted from metal from the Kingdom of Bohemia, and the reverse of the coin featured a lion. Incidentally, the German word for a tolar, thaler, is also the origin of the word dollar, as the Spanish coin the real de a ocho was about the same size and weight as a thaler and the English name for the coin drifted a bit from "Spanish thaler" to "Spanish dollar."

The other reference in Tolar's name is to the fictional character Grathon Tolar from the _Star Trek: Deep Space Nine_ episode "In the Pale Moonlight." In the episode, Grathon Tolar is a forger of virtual 3D images (that is, the other kind of hologram) so I thought it worked as a reference in that regards. "In the Pale Moonlight" is one of my favorite episodes of DS9, especially for showing how very different the series is compared to other Star Trek series and in giving the secondary character Garak a chance to really shine.

The flat that Wilde and Hopps share was ransacked in "A Study in Gold," and Wilde apparently has not replaced all of his broken lab equipment quite yet.

A brougham is a type of carriage that's totally enclosed, much to Dr. Hopps's relief, while a trap is a smaller, lighter carriage without a roof. The wire tramway that provides access up the mountain to Tundra Town is inspired by similar systems seen in the real world. The use of tramways for passengers isn't anachronistic, either; the first such system was built in 1644 for carrying supplies and by the 19th century some systems were in place for passengers as well. When this story is set, in the last days of 1881, is quite near to the introduction of the telpherage system in 1883, which used a motor in the carriage portion powered by an electrical connection in the wires it moved on.

"Camelopard" is an out-dated term for a giraffe, not a hybrid of a camel and a leopard. It is, however, a portmanteau of the two Greek words for those animals in reference to the giraffe's vaguely camel-shaped body with its patterned leopard-like coat.

On December 27, 1881, the sun set in London at about 4PM, so as Dr. Hopps is trying to make a meeting at that time it makes sense that the sun will already be low in the sky when she takes the tramway.

I figured that the mountain that Tundra Town is on in this story had to have a name, and the word "collier" is French for "collar."

In British parlance, a chemist's shop is a pharmacy; the term was in use in the 19th century and is still in use today. Salicin is a historical predecessor of aspirin, and is an anti-inflammatory and painkiller made from willow bark, which is where it gets its name; willow trees are in the genus _Salix_.

The design of the Chateau Talpen is inspired by a Swiss chalet, which hopefully makes for an elegant hotel. Gingerbread houses have been made since at least the early 1800s; the fairytale of Hansel and Gretel likely contributed to their becoming more common.

The bowler hat was a common working man's hat in the late 19th century, which makes the pairing of a battered one with a fine suit an odd combination.

In the real world, horses were used for pulling artillery even into WWII, and in a world where horses have human intelligence I think it makes sense for them to serve as the crew for the weapons they pulled. The term fusilier has been applied to a variety of different roles, but in this context it's being used as the soldiers who guard an artillery piece.

The differences between donkeys and horses, which Dr. Hopps touches upon, are true to the real mammals.

Mules, the hybrid between a male donkey and a female horse, are quite common in the real world. Hinnies, the hybrid between a female donkey and a male horse, are less common in the real world since they are both less desirable (mules tend to be larger than hinnies) and the chromosomal difference between horses and donkeys is easier to overcome when the donkey parent is male since donkeys have fewer chromosomes than horses.

Since this chapter ends with the revelation that the mystery author of the telegram is a mule (although, as an inconsequential spoiler, he's actually a hinny) I suppose it's appropriate to explain how hybrids work in the universe of this series. I've made the assumption that the only hybrids that are possible are ones that are possible in real life and that like real world hybrids they're frequently sterile. I'll get into the implications of this a bit more in a subsequent chapter, but from Dr. Hopps's reaction it should be clear that hybrids are rare.

These notes (and this chapter) ended up on the lengthy side; thank you very much for reading! If you're inclined to comment, I'd love to know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

"I am Dr. Hopps," I said, and I tried not to let my amazement at the mule before me show, "Are you the mammal who sent Wilde a telegram?"

Although I had never before seen a mule, or indeed encountered a description of one outside of medical texts, there were of course many stories of hybrids and the peculiar abilities their taboo parentage was said to give them. When I had been little more than a kit I had read about the court of a twisted emperor of the Far East who had centuries ago ordered the creation of slaves bred between lions and tigers. The supposed results of this barbaric command, it was said, greatly exceeded either parent species in size and strength, and their natural lack of fertility kept their loyalty for they could create no dynasty of their own.

I will leave it to the historians and experts on more primitive cultures as to whether such tales are true, though I can think of no medical reason to suggest their falsehood, as I have myself observed the surprising results of hybridizing plants. What I can say, however, is that the mammal who stood before me in the lobby of the hotel, wringing his hat between his hooves, seemed more as though the attributes of his ancestry had been averaged more so than he appeared physically extraordinary in any particular aspect.

At my words, the mule looked from side to side quickly, checking the lobby to see if we were alone before he answered. "I am," he said, "Where's the fox, then?"

"Wilde had another appointment," I said, "But he would be quite happy to meet with you—"

The mule cut off my words with a snort of disgust before I could explain that Wilde's schedule was quite open the following day. "I should never have expected much from a fox," he said, his queer face distorted by a scowl, "Is he really so good as they say?"

"There is no mammal alive better able to solve mysteries," I said, and my tone was perhaps a touch colder than how I would normally have expressed the thought.

It was always a disappointment to me when mammals dismissed Wilde's abilities simply because he was a fox, a fact of his nature he could no more have controlled than the mammal before me could control being a mule. Although Wilde was remarkably self-satisfied with his natural abilities, I thought he would seriously consider the option were he given the chance to choose his species, and I suspected the same would be true for the mule.

"Then I'll explain myself to you first," said the mule, "And you can tell him yourself I'm in a bad way. Twice now, someone has tried to kill me. It—"

He cut himself off, falling silent as a pair of ibex walked across the lobby to take free seats near where I was in front of the fireplace. "Come with me to the restaurant," he said, the words barely above a whisper as he looked from the ibex closest to where I sat and then back to me, "I'll explain myself there."

I left my settee willingly enough, though the ache in my bad leg had not improved any even with my rest, and limped after the mule towards the entrance to the restaurant. "You have not given me your name," I said, and the mule's eyes darted about before he responded.

"Lawrence Quixano," he said shortly; the name meant nothing to me and he fell silent.

The design of the Chateau Talpen's restaurant was quite a bit different from that of the hotel lobby but no less lovely. It was a large, open room, with an enormous fountain at its centre that provided a burbling undertone to the murmur of dozens of different conversations at candle-lit tables scattered throughout the room. Colourful flowers and plants, in enormous and beautifully made beaten copper pots, had been positioned throughout the room as cheerful divisions that broke from the austerity of the landscape outside the great windows that dominated an entire wall. Seeing the view out the window made me realize, much to my chagrin, that the reason my leg had begun to ache so was not simply due to the increased altitude as I had hoped. In the span of less than an hour, the weather had taken a drastic turn, the snow that had once been drifting down gently now so heavy that the imposing side of the mountain vanished into the dark, the brightness of the gas lamps positioned outside the building made feeble by the snow. Although many of the conversations in the room were quite lively, the sound of the wind was still perfectly audible, and though it could not rattle the well-made bulk of the hotel it still shrieked eerily as it blew past.

There was no question in my mind that it was a blizzard the likes of which I had never before seen; although I had not been in Zootopia for the snowstorm that started 1881, it surely must have been nearly as severe as that one. Although it occurred to me in the moment that the weather would surely complicate my return to my flat, I pushed the thought aside, for in all honesty I was deeply curious about what Quixano would say. It would be no great sacrifice for me to spend the night in Tundra Town, were it required due to the roads and the tramway being unusable until the storm passed, and Quixano had mentioned his willingness to pay any price necessary to ensure his safety in his telegram.

Quixano insisted on a table near the fountain, perhaps fearing that our words might otherwise be overhead, and when the waiter had stopped by with menus the mule ordered for both of us. Seemingly without any deliberation, he ordered a pot of their most expensive tea (which was rather expensive indeed) and a plate of delicate sandwiches. He seemed quite anxious as we waited, constantly peering about, and it was only after the waiter had brought what he had ordered that Quixano spoke again after first pouring each of us a cup of tea.

I had certainly never had the particular variety of tea before, which was green with an unpleasantly astringent taste to it, and I set it aside after a single sip, more interested in what Quixano had to say than in either the tea or the little sandwiches he had ordered. Quixano did not seem to enjoy the tea any more than I had, for he visibly grimaced at his own first sip, and then before my wondering eyes added a dozen or more sugar cubes to his cup. "I wasn't born to this sort of life," he said, his tone almost apologetic as he stirred his sludgy mixture, "I've no idea how anyone could enjoy this."

He frowned, looking down at the plate of delicate little sandwiches, and then back up at me. The expression in his eyes was so lost that I could not help but feel a pang of sympathy for him; he seemed completely bewildered in a world he could not understand the rules for.

"It must not be easy for you," I said gently, "Now, could you explain why you so desperately need Wilde's aid?

"I must start from the beginning," Quixano began slowly, and though his rough voice was uncertain at first, as he spoke he gradually grew more confident, pausing only to take sips of his tea, which had taken on very nearly the consistency of treacle due to the vast quantity of sugar he had added.

"My mum raised me herself in a little flat she kept here. In Zootopia, I mean, not Tundra Town," he said, "She never spoke of my father when I was growing up, not once, even when I was old enough to ask. Her own family disowned her, I think, for the shame of being mother to a mule, and I never met any of them. I must have been nine or ten when I was apprenticed off to Mr. Tarpan—a smith and a farrier, he was, a right good one—and began learning the trade. As I got older, I would think of the sort of mammal my father might be. A soldier, perhaps, but an officer, for my mother never worked but little jobs here and there sewing and mending clothes and we never wanted for anything."

I nodded, understanding his meaning. I knew that apprenticing a son could not have been cheap for a single mother, and for her to have no permanent job herself certainly suggested that Quixano's father was providing financial support behind the scenes. "By the time I was five-and-twenty, I made shoes better than any apprentice my master ever had, or so he said. I used to wish that he was my father, and I told him so once."

At this point in his recitation, Quixano paused, seeming to need a moment to collect himself. "He didn't take offense, either, and said was as proud of me as if he was my father. Those were good years, Dr. Hopps. I could have lived the rest of my life perfectly happy, had they gone on as they had, even with all I missed. There were no mares or jennies who'd give me so much as the time of day, but that was no bother. I had family enough of my own."

Quixano sighed. "But it all fell apart, it did. Mr. Tarpan got in a fight in a pub for my honour. Can you imagine that, Dr. Hopps? For _my_ honour?"

The mule laughed bitterly. "And him nearly seventy years old, with nothing but his fists, against a stallion not even half that with a knife like a sword. Tarpan won, too, but his wound turned septic and he died not even a month later."

"I am very sorry to hear it," I said, and I truly was, "It was the act of a coward, whoever attacked him."

"Cowardly, yes," Quixano said, "There's the word for it. If he dies in prison it's too good for him, I say."

I made a note of this as a potential suspect; even if the mammal who had attacked Mr. Tarpan was still in prison, it did not necessarily follow that he was unable to try revenging himself upon Quixano. Through my association with Wilde, I had learned of gangs who would gladly act for a member trapped behind bars. Before I could ask at the name of the mammal who had caused Tarpan's death, Quixano had already continued. "That was nearly four years ago, and I thought it would be the end of me working at Tarpan's shop. But I inherited the shop, which was a real surprise to me, and kept running it as Tarpan had."

"Was that when the attempts on your life began?" I asked, and Quixano shook his head.

"Mr. Tarpan was the last of his family still alive," he said, "The attempts at murdering me have no connection to the shop, I am sure of that. Business with me as the owner wasn't quite so good as it had been while he lived, and I've replaced more than my share of windows lost to rocks, but I got on well enough. I missed—and still miss—Tarpan dearly, but I still had my mum."

From the way that Quixano paused to gulp at his tea, I thought his losses had not ended there. Indeed, as he refilled his cup anew from the teapot, I saw his fingers trembling both while he poured and while he added more sugar cubes, and he seemed to have difficulty keeping his breathing even, seeming overwhelmed by emotion. "Almost three years ago now, she developed a lump which slowly grew larger. When at last she visited a doctor, it was only to learn that it was a tumour, one that was beyond the ability of a doctor such as she was able to afford to remove."

Quixano paused again, and the prior steadiness that had gone into his voice as he told his story vanished, his voice roughening and his teacup shaking in his hoof. "We fought, then, as we never had before. I begged with her, pleaded with her, to go to my father and ask for help. I told her I would gladly stay unaware of his true identity, if that was her wish, but that if he had the money to support her for so many years it could not hurt to see if he could pay for the surgery she needed."

The raw pain and vulnerability that radiated from Quixano filled my own heart with a sense of his helpless grief, and the mule plunged onward, still trembling and breathing so unevenly that his words came in staccato bursts. "She yielded... For my sake, she yielded... And told me... And told me everything... My father was... Was Lord Lawrence Whinnypeg."

My jaw dropped in astonishment at his words, for of course at the time I spoke with Quixano I may have been the first mammal uninvolved in the scandal to learn of it. Although the versions of this story I have read put to paper by other authors after Wilde's investigation came to an end have had numerous errors, which I am now endeavouring to correct with my account of what I witnessed, they were all quite correct in stating that Lord Whinnypeg had fathered an illegitimate child with Roberta Quixano, a donkey at the time employed as a maid at his country estate.

Although I am sure that I hardly need to state the details, I suppose I shall include them for the benefit of any non-native readers. Before his death some six months prior to my meeting with Quixano, Lord Whinnypeg had served as the Chancellor of the Exchequer, one of the most powerful members of Parliament, and had it not been for a fatal case of pneumonia he might even have ascended to the position of Prime Minister. Lord Whinnypeg's eldest son, William Whinnypeg, had inherited his father's title and seat in Parliament, and while he was of course not the Chancellor of the Exchequer he was frequently the subject of great praise in the newspapers for his shrewd political insight and compassion for the common mammal, and it was commonly expected in those days that his political career would exceed that of his esteemed father. Lord Whinnypeg's second son, Edward Whinnypeg, was said to lack the political acumen of his brother and father, content to live a life of leisure as a darling of high society; his comings and goings were reported in the society columns of every paper with breathless descriptions of the fabulous parties he hosted and attended. Lord Whinnypeg's third child was his only daughter, Lisa Whinnypeg. She was said to be a great beauty, and her upcoming wedding was widely discussed with great certainty that it would be _the_ event of the spring of 1882. Beyond those three mammals, Lord Whinnypeg's wife had been a widow when they married, and she brought with her a young son, Adam Hayes, who had never taken the Whinnypeg name but became quite successful as an actor. Lady Whinnypeg herself had predeceased her husband by nearly a decade, and Lord Whinnypeg had never remarried.

My mind positively reeled as I considered that any one of Lord Whinnypeg's legitimate children, and perhaps also Adam Hayes though he could have no blood relation to Lawrence Quixano, could very wish the mule dead. "By Jove!" I cried, "And you suspect one or more of Lord Whinnypeg's children?"

Quixano nodded his head, seeming unable to form words. Sweat beaded against his brow, though it was quite pleasant in the restaurant, and a look of terrible agony crossed his face. The mule gave a great convulsion before he slumped face-first into the plate of delicate little sandwiches and sending his teacup to shatter against the floor. As I looked from the ruined teacup and its pool of thick green liquid back to the insensate mule I cursed myself as a fool for the second time in less than an hour. Assuming that the reason my bad leg had pained me so was not due to any change in the weather was a far more forgivable error, but I thought Wilde would find the errors I had followed it with inexcusable. I, a doctor, had mistaken the symptoms of what was now quite obviously poisoning for emotion, and while Quixano still drew shallow and unsteady breaths that might not be the case for much longer. And, perhaps even worse for Quixano's prospects, I myself had taken a sip of the same tea I was sure was responsible.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Besides showing that Dr. Hopps has at least a little bit of the snobby air of superiority about her culture being better than that of the Far East not uncommon to Westerners in the 19th century, the little anecdote she relates about hybrids does show some other elements of this world as reflected from the real world. The unnamed Far East is, of course, China, and while no Chinese emperor ever ordered the creation of hybrid humans (for obvious reasons), several different dynasties did order the creation of eunuchs.

Varys from Game of Thrones is probably the best known example in Western pop culture of a court eunuch, but whereas he wasn't deliberately made into a eunuch with the goal of making him a court adviser, the same was not true in imperial China. Boys were sometimes castrated for the express purpose of preparing them for a life of imperial service; since eunuchs cannot father children, they were thought to be more trustworthy since they would be incapable of starting their own dynasty. Men were also sometimes castrated as a punishment and employed as servants or slaves.

In this story, assuming that what Dr. Hopps has read isn't a gross exaggeration or lie, it's suggested that lions and tigers were forced to parent hybrid offspring. Such a cross is in fact possible, and ligers, the result of producing an offspring between a male lion and a female tiger, do indeed grow to enormous size. Male ligers are effectively genetically sterile but female ligers are at least occasionally fertile, as there have been a few known instances of second-generation offspring with a lion. Dr. Hopps makes a somewhat casual reference to heterosis, the phenomenon by which a hybrid animal or plant exhibits qualities exceeding either of their parents. As she grew up on a farm, it shouldn't be too surprising that she's seen this in plants before.

Lawrence Quixano's last name is a reference to Alonso Quijano, Don Quixote's actual name, since Don Quixote acts as a pun on the word "donkey."

When Dr. Hopps makes reference to a blizzard that occurred in 1881, that was in fact something that did happen; the Blizzard of 1881 was one of the most severe blizzards in the recorded history of the United Kingdom, with snow and winds that made railroads unusable and shut down entire towns for days. In this series, Dr. Hopps would have still been in the military in January of 1881, and wouldn't have been in the city.

Sugar cubes were first produced around 1843, and would not be unusual for a fancy restaurant to have in 1881. Sugar cubes were a conveniently usable form of sugar, as through the 19th century and into the early 20th century sugar was commonly sold in the form of sugarloaves, which were large, rounded cylinders of refined sugar that had pieces cut off with a special kind of cutter called sugar nips. Sugarloaves were made during the refining process of sugar, and once available granulated sugar quickly became more popular.

A dozen sugar cubes is a lot of sugar to put into a cup of tea and it shouldn't be too surprising that not all of it would dissolve, resulting in a sludgy (and presumably extremely sweet) liquid.

It would definitely not be normal in the present day for someone to begin working as an apprentice at the age of nine, but it wouldn't have been too unusual for the late 19th century. It also wasn't uncommon for masters to require payment to take on an apprentice, which tended to put apprenticeships out of the reach of the poorer members of society.

Quixano's master, Mr. Tarpan, is named after a species of wild horse that went extinct in 1909. A farrier is someone who specializes in the care of a horse's hooves in terms of fitting them with horseshoes, a job that was in demand in the real world 19th century due to how many horses there were used as working animals. It's a job that pairs well with being a blacksmith, and due to how horses and other equines are pretty ubiquitous in this series for drawing carriages it'd be a skill well in demand.

In "A Study in Gold" Dr. Hopps comments on the dangers of infection, and in what happened to Tarpan the reason should be clear; in a time before the development of antibiotics, infections could make even minor injuries become fatal.

Lord Whinnypeg's name is naturally a pun combining "whinny" and "Winnipeg" and his wife's son from her first marriage being named Hayes uses the name for its similarity to "hay." It might be somewhat surprising to read that Lord Whinnypeg's son William inherited a position in Parliament, but the way that the UK Parliament works is quite a bit different from the US Congress.

Although Parliament is a bicameral body, consisting of two houses, they are very different from the US Senate and House of Representative. The House of Commons is made up of Members of Parliament who are voted into office by people who they represent. Every member of the House of Lords, however, is appointed. Just holding a British title of nobility does not automatically entitle a person to sit in the House of Lords, and even people who held both a title of nobility and a seat in the House of Lords did not automatically pass down their seat to their heir along with their title. Only hereditary peers pass along both, while a life peer only holds a title of nobility and a seat in the House of Lords during their own lifetime; their heir inherits neither title nor seat in the House of Lords. Lord Whinnypeg, then, was a hereditary peer, and upon his death his eldest son gained both the title and the seat.

Parliament has also undergone quite a bit of reform and changes since 1881, with the balance of power shifting from the House of Lords to the House of Commons. Nowadays the British Prime Minister always comes from the House of Commons, but in the 19th century it was more common for them to come from the House of Lords than the House of Commons. In modern times, the Chancellor of the Exchequer is second only to the Prime Minister in terms of power, and even in the 19th century it was a powerful role.

The narrative conceit of this story is that Dr. Hopps is writing it after everything has taken place, so I think it's pretty obvious that she, at least, isn't about to die of poisoning, since it'd be impossible for her to write it up if she did. That doesn't mean, though, that things are going to go well for her.

As part of the same conceit that these events actually happened and are being described, I think it's pretty understandable why her assumption is that anyone native to the UK would be well aware of who each member of the Whinnypeg family is, and it's probably starting to become clear why this case causes a furor.

As always, thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!


	4. Chapter 4

Wilde had, on many occasions, described for me the thought process behind his deductions, how each fact he observed became a link in the chain that connected a mystery and its solution. When I took action following Quixano's collapse, however, I would be lying if I claimed to make any such tidy connections. Each conclusion I reached seemed simply to arrive, fully formed, in my mind, and it is only in retrospect that I could trace back the reasoning behind my actions, which I endeavour to do now.

At almost the instant that Quixano collapsed into the plate of sandwiches I was on my feet, seizing my cane and hitting its head against the nearest copper pot full of flowers until all the attention in the room turned to me, the murmured conversations dying away as every eye focused on my table. "You!" I cried, pointing at the largest mammal in the room, a well-dressed bull elephant in early middle age at a table perhaps four yards away, "Come get him off this table and onto the floor near the fountain."

When he made no immediate movement, simply peering down at me, I pointed my cane at him and stared him straight in the eye. "At once!" I said, and as though a spell had been broken he hurried over and the room erupted into whispers.

While the elephant was still lumbering towards Quixano, I turned to face the nearest waiter, a young and wide-eyed young deer. "You there," I said, "Call for the police at once. Tell them a murder has been attempted."

He nodded once and then hurried off, seeming to scarcely touch the floor. The _maître d'hôtel_ , a distinguished-looking reindeer, had somehow appeared at my side and seemed as though he wished to speak, but I never gave him the opportunity. "Your hotel is on well water, is it not?"

The reindeer gave me a look of utmost confusion and when I spoke again my voice was sharp with urgency. "The water the kitchen uses, it comes from a well, does it not?"

"I— I don't know," he stammered, but a waitress answered in his place.

"We do," she said confidently, and I turned to the goat.

"Fetch me one of the filters, then, quick as you can," I said, and thankfully she asked no questions, simply running off as I called after her, "An unused one, mind!"

"What— What—" the _maître d'hôtel_ began, but I had no time for his questions.

The elephant had eased Quixano out of his chair and onto the floor as easily and gently as I might move a sleeping kit, and it was clear that the mule was in dire need of my attention. His eyes were unfocused, his lids at half-mast, and were it not for the continued tremors that wracked his body I might have thought him dead. "Gather up all the waiters and waitresses and every mammal who works in the kitchen," I told the _maître d'hôtel_ , "I shall need names."

Without bothering to see whether or not he would comply, I turned my attention to the teapot that still stood on the table and pulled the lid off and peered inside. It was rather a large teapot, for it had been sized to Quixano rather than to me; his teacup had been as large to me as a teapot. Even after pouring two cups of tea for himself and the comparatively minuscule one for me that I had taken only the smallest possible sip out of, the pot was still almost half-full.

At the time I had tried the unpleasantly bitter green tea, I had not paid it much mind, thinking only that the tea was intended for a palate quite a bit different from mine. When I pulled the tea infuser from the pot, which was larger than both my fists put together, I saw my error, for in addition to the delicate tea leaves there were leaves of a sort quite familiar to me from my days growing up in Bunny Burrows, for the old church had a fine yew tree said to have been planted during the reign of Henry IV. The unmistakable evergreen needles left me no doubt as to how Quixano had been poisoned, and the extraordinary quantity of those sinister leaves in the tea infuser left just as little doubt as to why the mule had succumbed so quickly. Perhaps it is not well-known outside of medical circles, but equines of all sorts—including, as I was then learning, mules—are particularly vulnerable to taxine, the substance in yew leaves that makes them an inedible poison to the vast majority of mammals. That I, as a rabbit, was only less vulnerable to taxine compared to a mule rather than completely immune was a thought that did not even occur to me until later, so focused was I on saving my patient.

My paws seemed to act of their own accord as I pulled open my doctor's bag, which I took with me wherever I went with the force of old habit, although my service revolver wrapped in a protective swaddle of bandages was a recent addition. Most unfortunately for the crisis I found myself trying to resolve, in those days I kept my medical kit the same as I had in my army days, when the emergencies I would have to respond to involved the traumas of war, not poisonings. Had Quixano been shot, stabbed, or bludgeoned I would have been well-sorted; I had a fine suturing kit I had once used on Wilde, an assortment of scalpels, and analgesics enough to soothe even the largest of patients. Indeed, I still carried everything but my bone saws, and while I had a number of syringes of varying sizes I had nothing with which to treat poisoning. What I did have, however, was a small jar of petroleum jelly, and it was this that I pulled out of my bag.

The elephant who had moved Quixano to the floor had not moved himself once completing the task; he stood anxiously by the mule's side, wringing his massive paws. "Will he live?" the elephant asked, and there was a quaver in his deep and resonant voice.

"I shall do everything I can," I replied, "But I shall need your assistance again. Pull the tube out of that fountain."

I gestured at the fountain that Quixano had insisted that we sit near. It was finely made, its lowest layer a shallow basin of marble perhaps five feet in diameter. Two additional basins, each perhaps two feet less in diameter than the one immediately below it, were set atop this base, rising to a height of six feet. Water overflowed the top two basins, making shimmering and unbroken curtains that hid the pedestals upon which each was supported. A spout of thick black bharalt-rubber protruded from the middle of the highest basin, mostly hidden in the mouth of a carved marble fish, and it was this tube I was interested in.

My hastily conscripted orderly moved to do my bidding without question, seeming mindless of how the water from the fountain soaked through his fine suit as he gripped the pedestal that supported the elevated basins with both of his enormous paws and then pulled at the tubing with his trunk. The entire fountain, which I doubt an entire family of bunnies could have so much as shifted, groaned terribly, the marble cracking beneath the elephant's fearsome grip as he pulled the tubing free. As the elephant gave me the entire length of bharalt-rubber tubing, which was perhaps an inch in diameter and nearly ten feet long, I noted with a somewhat detached air that my paws were trembling and an incredible headache was blooming behind my eyes. It was, I knew, a sign that I was beginning to succumb to the same poison I was working to rid the mule of, and I redoubled my efforts.

Using a scalpel, I cut the tubing down to a more manageable size and smeared the entire outside of the tube with the petroleum jelly, which consumed the entire little container. I turned to the elephant and gave my directions. "Hold his mouth open," I instructed, "I shall have to perform a gastric lavage."

Quixano's arms moved feebly against the elephant as the enormous mammal dropped to the floor and gently opened the mule's jaw, and he barely reacted as I fed the tube down his throat and into his stomach, listening carefully with one ear against the mule's broad chest. It was not a technique I had used in long years, but I even as I write this I can still hear the words of my instructor, Dr. Boargelat, on the method for properly positioning the tube so that it would enter the stomach and not the lungs. Even so, it was a dreadful procedure, the elephant looking away with disgust evident across his looming face. I would have preferred to induce emesis, were it possible, but in short order the former contents of Quixano's stomach were pooling across the floor of the restaurant.

When I looked up, I saw that the goat waitress had returned with a ceramic cylinder nearly as long as my torso and she was clearly staggering under its weight. She stood at the front of the crowd that had circled around Quixano, the elephant, and me at a distance of six or so feet. Her eyes were fixed upon Quixano in a mixture of fascination and dread, and I leaned heavily on my cane as I forced myself to me feet and approached her. My balance was beginning to be worryingly off, and I had to force down a wave of vertigo as I made my way to her and caught her attention. "Excellent," I said, "Now, break it open."

When the goat did not act, but simply stared at me with eyes still wide as saucers, I spoke again, with far more urgency. "At once, please," I said, and she let the cylinder fall to the floor.

The thick glazed ceramic walls of the filter shattered as it landed, exposing the contents. I must have looked like quite the mad mammal as I started sifting through the contents, ignoring the sudden mess of fine sand and pebbles. I was digging instead for what I had hoped would be present—perfectly formed granules of charcoal. I grabbed a pitcher of ice water off a nearby table and added the charcoal, stirring it with a knife I purloined from the same table, and when I had an evil-looking slurry the colour of night in a coal mine I forced myself to drink until I felt fit to burst. The rest of the pitcher I poured down the tube still protruding from Quixano's mouth, and although I doubted the waitress understood my reasons, she caught on quickly, preparing several additional pitchers in a similar manner. Once I was satisfied that Quixano's stomach had been filled, I took stock of my patient.

Quixano's condition was not worsening, but neither was it improving; his breathing was still weak and he appeared unaware of his surroundings, his head lolled to the side. When I had pressed one ear against his chest as I threaded the bharalt-rubber tube down his throat, I had heard that his heart rate was dangerously sluggish, and if anything his heart had slowed down since then. Although I had taken action as promptly as I could, I feared that my best would not be enough, but when I looked out into the crowd of mammals still watching and murmuring amongst themselves I was struck by an idea.

The Chateau Talpen was a rather posh hotel, and many of the ladies present were dressed in the highest of fashions, wearing elegant dresses of silk edged with lace. I looked up from Quixano and spoke loudly. "Does anyone have belladonna eye drops? I need them at once."

There was a moment's pause, and while many of the murmured conversations were ugly indeed—I heard a sour-faced goat question her dining companion as to why a mule deserved so much fuss—at last a chamois stepped forward, pulling a glass bottle from her purse. The chamois's dress was among the finest of any of the ladies present, the brocading of her dress so detailed that only a mouse could have made the delicate stitching, and her striped face was kind. She must have used the eye drops quite recently, for her golden eyes were quite dilated. "Thank you," I said, and I turned back to my doctor's bag and pulled forth one of my largest syringes.

I had never treated a mule before, although I had treated countless horses and more than a few donkeys, and I used what knowledge I had to make an estimate of a dosage that would at the very least not cause more harm than good. Once I had injected Quixano, I took a moment to consider my own well-being. I would not dare to attempt gastric lavage on myself, and while there was still quite a bit of the belladonna left in its glass bottle, it was quite useless for me. It was quite a curious thing, that something could be a deadly poison if ingested, a medicine to increase the heart rate if injected, and also a cosmetic that could dilate the pupils. Even more curious was that it did not affect all mammals equally; to a rabbit such as me it was neither poison nor medicine and were I to either drink the bottle or inject myself it would have no effect.

Still, although my treatment of myself had been limited to drinking an unpleasantly large amount of water mixed with charcoal, I thought that I was in no real personal danger. I had taken only the smallest sip of the poisoned tea compared to the much greater quantity that Quixano had consumed, and I did not have a heightened sensitivity to taxine as he did. Although I could feel a bit of a tremble in my limbs and my headache had worsened to a continuous throbbing, when I felt my chest my heart was steady if perhaps a touch slower than normal. With the charcoal in my stomach to bind to the poison, I considered my own prognosis excellent, although I could not say the same for my patient.

I stood up slowly and considered the crowd. Someone in the hotel, I was sure, was responsible for trying to kill Quixano. It felt as though it had been ages ago that I had requested a list of everyone who worked in the restaurant's kitchen or served the food, for in the heat of the moment I had intuited a conclusion I thought Wilde would agree with. Whoever had poisoned the tea had done so quite deliberately and with great precision, for I did not see anyone else in the restaurant who had collapsed, and it logically followed that they must have had access to the teapot at some point before it reached our table. I wished that I could remember what the waiter who had served us had looked like, but I had been too caught up in my curiosity about Quixano's story to pay the mammal any mind; I had been, as Wilde might have said, _seeing_ without _observing_.

The deer I had sent to summon the police had returned, and his expression was apologetic. Before I could ask, he spoke. "The police can't risk coming, not with the storm the way it is. They'll send an inspector as soon as it clears."

I frowned. I had hoped for a quick response from the police, as I doubted that the danger Quixano was in was anyway near its end, and I was feeling far from my best. "The hotel has a telegraph station, does it not?" I asked,

To my relief, the deer nodded eagerly, apparently pleased that he could be of some help. "O yes ma'am," he said, nodding vigorously.

I borrowed his pad of paper and pencil and scribbled off a note, composing it as I wrote. I dug out a fistful of coins and thrust them, along with the message, into the deer's hooves. "Have this message sent to Mr. Nicholas Wilde at 221B Barker Street at once. The highest priority, whatever the expense."

In my haste I had likely given the deer coins enough to send a message three times longer, but that was no matter. I turned back to the crowd. "Is there another doctor present?" I asked, somewhat hopefully, and tried not to be too disappointed when I was met with a sea of blank faces.

I sighed, running a paw over my head and down my ears. I was not sure how long Wilde's appointment with Inspector Trunkaby would take, and even if he replied to my message I thought that there was little he could do while not physically present. Although I wished to begin investigating myself, for I thought I had learned enough from Wilde to not make a total botch of it, my first priority had to be Quixano and ensuring that he did not take a turn for the worse. With no other doctors present, therefore, it fell to me to keep him under close supervision until either assistance arrived or the mule passed on. It would not do, after all, for me to divine how the tea had been poisoned only to give the would-be murderer and any accomplices they might have access to the insensate form of Quixano.

While still keeping a close eye on Quixano, I sought out the _maître d'hôtel._ "I shall still need that list of names," I said, looking up into his nervous face, "And no one is to enter the kitchen or touch anything on the table. The entire restaurant must be closed off. Everything must be preserved _in situ_ , do you understand?"

"I simply cannot close the restaurant," the reindeer protested, "The lost profits alone would—"

"Would outweigh the burden on your conscience if you allow a murderer to go free?" I interrupted coldly.

The reindeer swallowed. "I shall close the restaurant," he said, and I was appalled at the sulky undertone to his voice.

I turned back to the elephant who had been such a help to me. "I shall need to get Mr. Quixano back to his room. Could I trouble you for one last bit of assistance?"

"You could trouble me for a lot more," he replied, and on hearing him speak when my focus was no longer solely on my patient I noticed for the first time that he spoke with the queerly nasal accent of an Amarecan, which didn't seem to suit his deep voice at all.

"This is a real fix your poor mule is in, make no mistake. Aaron White, by the by," he said, adding his introduction with the casual and cheerful lack of formality that seemed to mark every one of the few Amarecans I had ever met, and I gladly shook his proffered paw.

"Dr. Hopps," I said, and he nodded crisply.

With no apparent effort, White gently lifted Quixano, and I followed the elephant out of the restaurant, towards the back of the group of patrons the _maître d'hôtel_ was reluctantly escorting out.

Although Quixano was still in no condition to speak sensibly or answer questions, I found a room key engraved with a number in his pocket. Mr. White was gracious enough to provide me with support even as he carried Quixano; the tremble in my limbs had not receded and I felt the occasional touch of vertigo as the elephant squeezed his way through a hallway not quite tall enough for him. When we at last reached Quixano's suite, the sheer opulence of it was initially overwhelming; it was at least three times the size of the set of rooms I shared with Wilde, and so magnificently furnished that it wouldn't have looked out of place in a palace.

Lavish carpets covered the floor, and every piece of furniture, including a bed so large that even Mr. White would have been able to stretch out, had been magnificently carved out of pale wood. Matching wood panelling ran halfway up the walls, and the remaining distance to the ceiling was all cleverly worked stone. An enormous fireplace, easily ten feet across, dominated one of the walls, and a merry fire was already steadily going. As I looked about, I saw no sign that Quixano had occupied the room; either the cleaning staff was extraordinarily thorough, he had not had much in the way of possessions, or both.

Once Mr. White had settled Quixano according to my instructions, the elephant had turned to me before leaving the room. "I can keep an eye on the restaurant, if you like," he said, "I can wake snakes if that little reindeer tries keeping it open."

Although Mr. White's tone seemed almost unfailingly cheerful, I didn't doubt his ability or his commitment. "Thank you again," I said, and the elephant shook his head.

"Shucks," he said, "You did all the work back there."

He left me with those words, and I sat for a moment in the overly tall but quite plush chair set at a writing desk I could have used as a closet before carefully lowering myself to the floor. I drew my service revolver from my bag and thoroughly checked it over. Once I was satisfied that it was still in fine working order and loaded, I set it on the floor at my side as I sat propped against the bed. I had requested that Mr. White place Quixano on the floor besides the bed, as if further treatment were required I did not want to have to do so with a patient sinking into the luxuriously soft feather-stuffed mattress, particularly not with my bad leg and the vertigo I still felt as a result of the poison. I glanced over at Quixano, who was conscious but had passed into a kind of delirium, babbling nonsense words and moving weakly, and on a sudden impulse pulled myself up onto the empty bed. I arranged the pillows into the vague shape of a sleeping horse before climbing back down to the floor to begin my vigil. I could hear the frigid winds of the blizzard blowing past, rattling the window and drowning out just about every other sound of the hotel around me. The darkness outside was absolute, the storm swallowing whatever light there was outside the hotel. The noise was about as far from soothing as it was possible to get, and I was glad of it, for I had no intention of sleeping at all that night, not while the mammal who wanted to murder Quixano still lurked about. As I touched my paw to the reassuring heft of my revolver, I thought to myself that it would be a long night indeed, although I could not have guessed at what would transpire.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Although tea bags were first invented in 8th century China, those early tea bags were intended only for preserving the flavor of the tea, not as a means of preparing it. Tea bags in their modern form, as single-use satchels intended to be added to a cup of hot water to produce a single serving of tea, date to 1903, but they didn't start catching on until around 1908 when the tea and coffee merchant Thomas Sullivan started sending his product packaged in fine silk bags. Although his intent was for customers to remove the tea leaves from the bags prior to use, they started preparing tea by simply adding the packets to hot water, and the use quickly caught on. What this means is that in 1881, when this story is set, the tea would have been prepared as loose leaves inside a tea infuser, hence how Dr. Hopps discovers that yew leaves had been added to the tea. That the tea consists of whole leaves indicates that, at least before the yew was added, that there was a reason for the tea to be the most expensive on the restaurant's menu, as less expensive teas are made of the finely ground particles left after assembling the best quality leaves.

Yew trees are relatively common around churches in Britain and Scotland; historically yew trees were a vital resource for making high-quality longbows due to the qualities of the wood. It's possible that the use of churches specifically as locations for growing yew trees may be due to churches historically being one of the few locations in a village that would have high walls to keep people and animals away from the toxic berries and leaves, or because yew trees were an old pagan symbol of longevity that got coopted during the spread of Christianity. Whatever the case, it is definitely plausible for Dr. Hopps to be familiar with the appearance of yew leaves from the church in Bunny Burrows. Yew trees are extraordinarily long-lived, so it's possible for the tree to be from the reign of Henry IV, who was King of England from 1399 to 1413.

Quixano was poisoned with yew leaves, which contain taxine alkaloids. Equines are particularly susceptible to poisoning by taxines, with a relatively low dose able to cause death. At the time this story is set it was not known that so-called taxine was actually a complex of several different alkaloids rather than a single alkaloid, hence Dr. Hopps referring to the poison as taxine rather than taxines.

The mechanism that taxines work by is by acting as a cardiotoxin, interfering with the muscle cells of the heart. In essence, they disrupt the ability of the cells to work, which can cause death either by stopping the heart completely or making it beat so weakly that not enough oxygen gets to the rest of the body. This is also why one of the symptoms shown is a lowered heart rate. There's no antidote for taxine poisoning; treatment depends entirely on getting the patient to survive long enough for the taxines to be flushed from the body.

The contents of Dr. Hopps's medical bag are as accurate as I could make them to a real 19th century army doctor's; as she notes, a field surgeon wouldn't carry anything for treating poisoning. Bone saws, used for field amputations, were a common part of a military doctor's equipment, but due to their size and lack of utility for anything else Dr. Hopps would likely have a separate bag for them.

Dr. Hopps comes up with a decent improvised plan of treatment. When she notes that she can't induce emesis in Quixano, she's using a somewhat more polite term to say that she can't make him vomit. Mules, like horses and donkeys, are physically incapable of vomiting; so are rabbits. Inducing vomiting isn't always the best idea in the case of poisoning, depending on the method of action of the particular poison, but lacking that option Dr. Hopps elects instead to pump Quixano's stomach.

The technique for pumping the contents out of a stomach was first developed around 1767, and by the late 19th century would have been well known by a doctor. Since Dr. Hopps does not have access to a specially made stomach pump, instead using the fountain in the restaurant for the tubing, she further makes do in terms of what she uses as a lubricant to get the tube down Quixano's throat.

The rubber tube being referred to as bharalt-rubber is a reference to the fact that at the time this story is set, it was pretty common to call various kinds of natural rubber, including vulcanized rubber, india-rubber (note the lack of capitalization). In using "bharalt" I'm referencing the name used for the country of India in many of the languages spoken in that country (Bharat, after the ancient emperor Bharata) with the bharal, a species of sheep native to the Himalayas. This also marks the first time that I've ever referenced a country by name within this setting, although it's quickly followed by Amarecan as a pun on American and mare.

Petroleum jelly was first developed in 1859 and sold as Vaseline, at the time sold more on its supposed curative properties for cuts and burns (explaining its presence in Dr. Hopps's bag) than its use as a lubricant. Vaseline is not only still manufactured but in some parts of the world is used as a generic term for any petroleum jelly.

Dr. Hopps's old instructor, Dr. Claude Boargelat, was briefly mentioned in "A Study in Gold" and was the one who made arrangements to get her a teaching job in Zootopia. His name is a pun on Claude Bourgelat, a French veterinarian who founded the first school of veterinary medicine. His advice about avoiding the lungs is an important piece of advice; it really is a bad idea to put anything in the lungs unless there's a specific reason for doing so.

Dr. Hopps kind of glosses over what was involved in pumping Quixano's stomach, but lacking a pump she would have had to siphon it, which I think certainly qualifies it as a "dreadful procedure." If the idea of ending up with a mouthful of gasoline while siphoning it out of a car's fuel tank is bad, I'd say the contents of someone's stomach are far worse.

In modern times, activated charcoal is frequently used as a treatment for poisoning, since it causes the poison to bind to the carbon rather than being absorbed through the stomach. Activated charcoal has gone through processing to increase its surface area, making it better able to do this, but normal charcoal will still work, though not as well. Even before the processing steps for making activated charcoal were known, charcoal has been used as a treatment for poisoning for thousands of years, and it was frequently used in water filters, too. Indeed, in the 19th century there was an increased awareness of the dangers of using raw water due to the risk of microorganisms and contaminants (particularly in cities), and charcoal filters became commonly used. Clearly, Dr. Hopps is aware of this since she expected a water filter to contain high-quality charcoal.

The medication that Dr. Hopps improvises out of eye drops is an actual treatment for taxine poisoning, and ties into 19th century cosmetics. At the time this story was set, there was a trend, particularly in France but also throughout Europe, of women using eye drops made from belladonna berries to dilate their eyes to make themselves appear more beautiful. This usage, which goes at least to the time of Cleopatra, is also what gives the plant its name; _bella donna_ is Italian for "beautiful woman." The active ingredient in these eye drops, atropine, can increase the heart rate, helping to counteract the reduced heart rate caused by taxine poisoning. However, atropine itself is also a poison if ingested, hence Dr. Hopps injecting it.

The connection between the trend for belladonna eye drops and French fashion is why I chose a chamois as the mammal who steps up to give Dr. Hopps the eye drops; the chamois is a species of goat-antelope native to France and the surrounding regions. In the real world, chamois are prized for the leather that can be made from their skin, as it is exceptionally soft and fine; for this reason certain soft fabrics are also called chamois. I assume, of course, that this isn't true in the world of Zootopia, as they would not use leather made from mammals any more than we would use leather made from people.

The reason she doesn't take any atropine herself despite also ingesting some of the poisoned tea, however, is that rabbits are immune to the toxic effects of consuming atropine, and the studies I've come across show that injecting rabbits with atropine similarly has no effect. Being a doctor in the world of Zootopia has to be an incredibly difficult job when it comes to making sure that what you're giving your patient is neither ineffective nor deadly. It's been my intent in this series to show that Dr. Hopps is not just a useless sidekick, as is unfortunately common in many adaptations of Sherlock Holmes where Watson basically only exists to give Sherlock someone to provide exposition to. This version of Judy is an excellent doctor, as her devotion to her dream of becoming an army doctor was no less than the movie Judy's devotion to her dream of becoming a police officer.

When Dr. Hopps notes that Wilde would likely say that she had been seeing without observing, it's a reference to a quote from _A Scandal in Bohemia_ , when Sherlock Holmes explains the distinction. Although Watson has seen the steps in front of 221B Baker Street every day, he cannot name how many of them there are; this, Sherlock says, is the difference between seeing something and observing it. Frankly, I think most people probably don't pay too much attention to wait staff, so Dr. Hopps not being able to recall her server's appearance is entirely forgivable in my opinion, but she can be a bit hard on herself.

The elephant's name being Aaron White is a little joke on the expression "a white elephant" to mean something expensive but useless, although that doesn't really apply to him. That Dr. Hopps thinks his Amarecan accent is nasal is a pretty typical judgment in the real world for how American accents sound and not just a reference to the fact that with a trunk he's got an enormous nose. Referring to a troubling situation as a fix is a bit of 19th century American slang, and to wake snakes is another bit of 19th century American slang that means to raise a ruckus.

This chapter veered a bit into 19th century medical drama, but hopefully it was still engaging. I thought that seeing how a 19th century doctor would MacGyver up a course of treatment for poison was pretty neat, but I've got kind of a fascination with the history of medicine. As always, thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought.


	5. Chapter 5

Perhaps two or three hours after Mr. White had helped me settle Quixano to the floor of the mule's lavish suite, there came a knock at the door. I moved quite cautiously towards the door, leaning heavily on my cane with one paw while I held my revolver in the other. Although my confidence in my ability to make a full recovery had not waned, I still felt dreadfully ill from my single sip of the poisoned tea. Indeed, were it not for the enteric fever which I had suffered when I had scarcely begun to recover from the bullet wound to my leg, I would have said that I had never felt weaker than I did that night.

Both my legs trembled no matter how I tried to will them towards steadiness, and I had to be careful not to move my head about too quickly or else I would be overcome by waves of vertigo which served to worsen the terrific throbbing of my headache. I had only to look at Quixano to know how much worse off I could have been, but I could not even risk bending down to peep through the keyhole at the unexpected visitor. "Who's there?" I called, and after a moment a voice I recognized as belonging to the deer I had sent to the hotel's telegraph operator with a message for Wilde answered back.

"Jim Antoillier, ma'am," he answered back, "The waiter, if you recall."

I made no motion to open the door, although I did allow my grip on my revolver to relax a touch. "Has there been a wire back from Wilde?" I asked, and there must have been a note of undisguised hopefulness in my voice because Antoillier hesitated before replying.

I did not expect that Wilde could possibly be of much assistance when I was stuck in Tundra Town and he likely in our flat, but I had my paws entirely full ensuring Quixano's continued survival. Anything he could have done from a distance would have been welcome indeed, but that vague hope was quickly dashed.

"Not as such, I'm afraid," Antoillier said at last, and though I could not see his face through the door I could imagine his apologetic expression all too well, "The storm's taken down the telegraph, I'm sorry to say."

Before I had the opportunity to reply to this grim bit of news, the deer quickly added, "Your message did get sent; I am sure of that. I was waiting with the telegraphist to be able to give you a response straight away if one came back and the wire just went down."

It was not quite the news I had hoped for, but it was a start. "Thank you, Mr. Antoillier," I said.

"Is there anything else you need, ma'am?" he asked, and I looked across the room at Quixano before answering.

Quixano was conscious, though in such a state of delirium that I could not possibly call him lucid. He would mutter to himself or occasionally cry out words or phrases that made little sense to my ears. He was, however, still too weak to move, which was a blessing; if he had become violent I would have had little recourse in trying to prevent him from hurting himself. The bottle of belladonna extract that the chamois had given me was still nearly two-thirds of the way full, which was more than sufficient to allow me to continue dosing Quixano until I could be sure his heart could withstand the strain unaided.

With the storm raging outside, I did not think that the murderer could escape the hotel; even a mammal well-suited to the cold such as the nearly heartless reindeer _maître d'hôtel_ would have little hope of navigating to safety in the blizzard. I still did not know who I could trust on the hotel staff, and my lone apparent ally, the enormous and kindly Amarecan elephant, had set himself to guarding the crime scene against tampering until the arrival of the police. "If you could let me know the moment the police arrive, I would be quite grateful."

"Of course," Antoillier replied, and I continued.

"And once the storm passes, no one is to leave the hotel until the police say they may. This blizzard _must_ have trapped the would-be murderer," I said.

I could make no claims towards having the deductive prowess of Wilde, but it seemed a reasonable enough conclusion. While whoever had poisoned Quixano may have set up their plot well in advance, the murderer themselves or some agent of theirs must have been present to actually add the poison to the mule's tea. It seemed to me that it logically followed that the mammal responsible must still be present, for the timing of the storm made escape seem impossible.

Antoillier coughed apologetically. "I shall try," he said, and I understood the spot I had asked him to stand in.

The mammals staying in the Chateau Talpen were among the wealthiest, not just in the city but in the world, and I thought it likely that many of them would be less than pleased to have their movement restricted. I certainly had no authority to force them to stay, to say nothing of the poor deer, and my tone was gentle when I replied. "Thank you," I said.

With that, my conversation with Antoillier was at an end; if he had thought it unusual that I had refused to open the door so much as a crack, he had kept those thoughts to himself. I set myself back to attending to my patient, and I admit that my careful observation was nearly as much for my own benefit as it was for his. The poison had left me feeling tired as well as weak, and by maintaining notes on the seeming nonsense Quixano raved through his delirium I had a point of focus on something other than my own discomfort.

Sometimes, especially as a dose of the belladonna was wearing off, Quixano would fall silent for periods of half-an-hour or more and the only sound would be the howling of the blizzard outside. However, each fresh dose would call forth words that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. "Can it not be a joke?" he asked, several times, "Can it not be the cruellest joke ever told?"

His voice, wavering and unsteady, would sometimes crack on the words, and more than once he broke down into tears after saying, "He must never have loved."

I supposed that he meant the Lord Whinnypeg and his mother, but I could not be sure. Nothing I did or said seemed to pierce the fog across Quixano's mind, for he would frequently speak over any soothing words I attempted. "A trade!" he cried deliriously, "I would, I would!"

For the first time since I had begun my treatment, Quixano's eyes found mine, but I do not believe he recognized me. "Would you?" he asked, "Is it _your_ scheme?"

The contempt in his voice was obvious, no matter that it was little more than a parched croak, and I delicately patted at one of his enormous arms. "Could you explain it for me?" I asked.

Perspiration clung to his brow, soaking through the coarse hairs of his mane, and his muttering continued. "Bricks. What a fool," he said, and as he shook his head from side to side his eyes rolled terribly in their sockets, focused on nothing, "O! What a fool. Bricks!"

Suddenly those eyes found mine again, and though his body still convulsed and trembled there was steel in his gaze. "I ought never to have trusted them," he said, "It's their game. You're... I'm but a..."

He trailed off, the intensity that had been in his eyes fading just as his sentence did. There was a long pause, in which I believed that he would not continue, before he spoke on, as though there had been no gap at all. "What do you call it? There are so many of them..."

Quixano feebly lifted one hoof and gestured vaguely. It took me no time at all to make the connection I thought he was failing to grasp in his weakened state, "A pawn?" I asked, and he nodded slowly.

"A pawn," he repeated, "I'll tell the fox. A pawn."

His words seemed to have cost him a tremendous amount of effort, for he immediately slumped against the pillows I had positioned on the floor for him to use as a bed. His great barrel of a chest heaved in gasping breaths. "Warm," he muttered, "Too warm."

His voice suddenly carried the same quavering petulance as a kit told that they could not have a piece of candy, but I took it upon myself to find a means by which to make him more comfortable. The great fire that had been crackling cheerfully in the carved stone hearth when Quixano and I had entered the suite some hours earlier had burned down to sullenly glowing embers. I had turned on all the gas lamps, which were all beautiful things of crystal and polished silver, in the room shortly after getting Quixano settled, and it was these that I decided to put out. The suite was, of course, built to a much larger scale than me, and I had to use my cane to reach the knobs on each of the lamps, balancing myself against the wall as I did so.

Once all the gas lamps were out, and the only light was that from the fireplace and what came through the narrow gap at the bottom of the door and the keyhole, I sat beside Quixano and mulled over what he had said. From his telegram, I knew that he had suspected his half-siblings of attempting to murder him, and while he had said that there had been two previous attempts on his life I did not know how those attempts had been made. I could certainly guess at many plausible motives, especially considering that Lord Lawrence Whinnypeg had been dead scarcely six months and his estate must surely have already been divided by his will, but I did not have any of the details that I knew Wilde would crave. From what Quixano had told me as he drank the poisoned tea, and from his disjointed mutterings afterwards, I thought that perhaps there was some connection to his mother. I did not know whether the mule had been successful in convincing his father to pay for the surgery his mother had needed, or assuming that the surgery had occurred that it had been successful. It might be a matter of inheritance, honour, or some combination of the two that had compelled someone to attempt to murder Quixano, but I felt as though I had not caught so much as a glimpse of the full picture.

By the feeble light left to me I worked at writing my thoughts in a small notebook I carried in my doctor's bag, though the words came out as a scarcely legible scrawl due to the way in which my paw still trembled. In truth, I felt as though the poison had nearly worked its way through my system, but as the night wore on the fatigue caused by the yew leaves began to be replaced by the simple fatigue of a night spent without sleep in first equal and then greater measure. Quixano had already succumbed to sleep, snoring quite loudly, but so long as his breaths remained even and his heart was steady each time I checked it, I would make no complaint. Even had Quixano not been snoring, I doubt I would have been able to sleep myself; besides the gradually lessening sounds of the winds outside as the blizzard blew through the greatest part of its strength, I was much too engaged by the mystery to give it up.

Indeed, I have always been a mammal of action, though not always to my benefit, and I wished for nothing more than for the storm to clear and Wilde and the police to arrive. In the absence of any such relief, I alternated between pacing the suite as best I could, checking on Quixano, and scouring my brain for any detail no matter how seemingly insignificant that I might have missed in my scribbled notes. I bitterly regretted that I could not remember the face or even the species of the mammal who had served the tea, for I could imagine a dozen ways by which they might try to evade detection. Perhaps it had been a guest of the hotel who had ensured that a waiter was indisposed so that their place could be taken. Were that the case, every waiter and waitress might be able to honestly answer that they had no involvement in the poisoning.

The poison itself seemed rather unremarkable to me as well, for yew trees are common enough, and I thought I could recall seeing at least one or two in a park in Zootopia itself. Besides, I knew that in much the same way that I could consume belladonna without any ill effects that there were mammals for whom yew leaves were a delicacy. The restaurant might very well have yew leaves amongst their regular stock of ingredients, dangerous though they may be to the majority of species. It was perhaps a weak lead, but it was a lead nonetheless, and I made a note to check the larders of the restaurant.

I had set myself as close to the dying fire as I possibly could, for I needed every bit of light available to see my notebook. As I closed my notebook and began to slowly force myself to my feet to check on Quixano again, I heard the muffled sounds of hooves against carpet coming from the hallway. Even with my crippled leg, I likely would have been able to take up a position by the door before the mammal in the hallway reached the door to Quixano's suite had it not been for the last vestiges of poison running through my veins. With the poison, and with my limbs still subject to the occasional tremor, I could not risk it, no matter how badly I wished to. Instead, I carefully pressed myself against the wall near the fireplace after first squinting at the face of my pocket watch for the time, which was about a quarter past two o'clock. Although I hoped to blend into the shadows, I had my revolver ready in case I needed it.

As the sound of hooves grew louder, no matter how muffled they were by carpet, I strained my ears for anything else I could possibly make out. I thought it likely that the mammal approaching was a horse, or a similarly-sized equine, and I held my breath as a pair of shadows disrupted the sliver of light coming in through the hallway from the gap at the bottom of the door and the sounds of hooves stopped. Although I could not see it turning in the gloom, I heard the doorknob being given a gentle but useless twist. I had, of course, kept the door locked throughout the night, and I was quite grateful for my foresight until I heard the smooth metallic click of a key being inserted.

I cursed myself for overlooking that the hotel would of course have more than one key for each room; if they did not, housekeeping would be unable to do their business while guests were out, for I doubted a hotel as fine as the Chateau Talpen required the key to be left behind whenever guests left the hotel. My suspicions of the hotel staff's involvement only deepened, and I slowly raised my revolver until I had it levelled at the door, my finger ready to go to the trigger. Were it not for the poison my revolver would have been perfectly steady, for I have always kept my head in a crisis, but even holding my breath I could not keep from trembling.

There was a long pause in which nothing happened, and I imagined that the would-be intruder was straining their own ears on the other side of the door just as I was doing on mine. I considered what they would hear, which I could not imagine to be anything other than the storm outside and Quixano's snoring, for I did not think there to be a single species of equine with hearing nearly as acute as a bunny's. I heard the doorknob twist again with exquisite slowness, and on the second attempt it was not stopped by the lock.

The door opened a fraction on its noiseless hinges, which in a stroke of luck were on the side of the door opposite the side of the room I was standing in. It meant that I could see not only the barrel of a rifle being poked through the gap, but could also see that my ruse with the pillows and sheets was working—the mammal was clearly aiming for the form in the bed, not for where Quixano lay on the floor. I considered my options carefully as the shooter lined up their shot. Although it was tempting to step out and fire, I might put myself into the sights of the shooter and I would be no help to Quixano dead on the floor. However, if I allowed the shot to be made, the shooter might think their attempt had succeeded and I might be able to get the drop on them as they left. It would be far from sporting, but creeping into a mammal's room to shoot him dead in his sleep was so far from honourable that I knew my conscience would be completely untroubled.

I had expected the deafening report and brilliant flash of a rifle followed by the unpleasantly acrid and sour smell of a fired bullet, but when the rifle fired it made only a firm crack. I had expected the assailant to flee immediately after their single shot to avoid capture, but the sound of what could have only been an air rifle was probably barely audible over the still fierce shrieks and moans of the wind outside for most other mammals in the hotel. Even as I realized the sort of weapon that the mammal had used, I realized that Quixano was still in terrible danger, for his snores were likely all the shooter needed to realize they had failed to kill their target.

What happened next seemed to happen all at once as the door swung open and the barrel of the air rifle jerked downwards to point at where Quixano lay on the floor, completely oblivious to the danger. I caught only the distinct silhouette of what was unmistakably a stallion against the more well-lit hallway before my finger was on the trigger of my revolver.

I squeezed off two shots, the revolver in my paw roaring and echoing painfully in the suite. Although I felt about half-deaf, I heard a whinny of either alarm or pain as I caught sight of the shooter fleeing, but I could not make out any of the horse's features. I hobbled towards the door as quickly as I could, but by the time I reached it there was no sign of a horse in the hallway. There were, however, several mammals, all dressed in their night clothes, looking up and down the hallway in stupefied amazement. "There's a horse!" I shouted, and pointed in the direction the shooter had fled, "He has a rifle!"

At my words, it seemed as though the well-heeled guests of the Chateau Talpen found the disturbance far less interesting, as the varied assortment of sheep, goats, and a lone and somewhat incongruous camel vanished back into their rooms. I wished, with every fibre of my being, to give chase, but I could not leave Quixano alone. I pulled the second key from the door and closed and locked it again before making my way back to Quixano. Remarkably, he had not been woken by the noise or smell of my revolver shots or by the sounds of my shouting, and still slumbered peacefully, his snores gentle and even. If the shooter had managed to get off a second shot which had been inaudible due to the far greater report of my revolver, Quixano had been missed entirely, and I felt the warmth of relief spreading up from the pit of my stomach.

Before I even had the chance to reach for the bell pull that hung at the side of the bed, which now featured a great hole in the pillows I had formed into a crude simulacrum of Quixano's head, there came a knock at the door. "Are you hurt?" came an anxious voice that I thought I recognized as the mammal who had been at the reception desk when I had first arrived at the hotel," What happened?"

I looked down at Quixano's peaceful form and then back up at the door. I considered my words a moment before replying. "Neither of us is hurt, but someone attempted to murder Mr. Quixano again," I said, bracing myself against my cane as I made my way to the door.

I heard a scrabbling at the door, the knob turning in futile attempts to open. "Could you unlock the door?" the anxious voice called again, "We must have misplaced the spare key."

It was the sort of thing that I was certain Wilde would have found quite humorous, and a small smile spread across my face as though I was sharing a joke with him. It was, I think, the first time I had smiled since the first attempt on Quixano's life, and I wasn't sure whether or not it was audible in my voice. "We do have to talk about that," I said.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Before my usual notes, I'd like to remark on a milestone I'm about to reach: this is the 99th chapter I've posted across a total of four stories, and next week's update will be number 100. Whether this is the first story of mine that you've read, you've read all four of my stories, or you fall anywhere in between, I'd like to thank you for reading. It's extraordinary for me to think that I'm coming up on two years of writing Zootopia fanfiction, and I can't say enough how much I appreciate having such wonderful readers!

To celebrate the milestone of 100 chapters, my next update will include a special something extra as a sign of my gratitude towards you, the reader. It was also an opportunity for me to try something a little different. I've been working on it for a few weeks now, and while it's not exactly new and original, it is something I've never done before and decided I wanted to try. It was a fun challenge, and I hope that you'll enjoy it!

Dr. Hopps's symptoms continue to be pretty typical of taxine poisoning; trembling, dizziness, and headache are all common symptoms. Her war injury, and subsequent nearly fatal infection with typhoid, was covered in the first chapter of _A Study in Gold_. Considering that she describes her recovery as taking months, as was true to life before it was possible to treat typhoid with antibiotics, it's understandable that it's her standard for feeling weak.

The deer waiter's last name, Antoillier, is the Old French word for antler, and is the origin of the English word. Dr. Hopps gives the perfect set up for a knock-knock joke, which wouldn't necessarily be anachronistic if she was in a more playful mood. The earliest known antecedent to the modern knock-knock joke appeared in Shakespeare's _MacBeth_ , when a (very hungover) porter jokes to himself about who would appear at the door and ask to enter. Knock-knock jokes became very popular parlor jokes in the early part of the 20th century, mostly based around puns or tongue-twisters. Similar jokes, known as "nifties," were also popular, which had a nearly identical setup. One often told by flappers in the US during Prohibition went as follows: the flapper would ask, "Do you know Hiawatha?"

In response to the proper reply, "Hiawatha who?" the punchline would be told: "Hiawatha good girl until I met you."

Knock-knock jokes survive now mostly as jokes strictly for children, but I found it interesting that they were once a wildly popular form of comedy.

Quixano's delirium is a side-effect of his treatment with atropine rather than his poisoning with taxines, and as Dr. Hopps is erring on the side of caution in his treatment he received additional doses throughout the night to help keep his heart from stopping before the taxines are totally flushed from his system.

Gas lamps have a number of flaws, besides just being dimmer, that make electric lighting the superior choice for interior lighting. In addition to burning a highly flammable gas that could cause explosions and producing significant amounts of carbon monoxide when in operation that could easily be fatal if a room didn't have sufficient ventilation, gas lamps also produce a lot of heat. Even the heat produced by an incandescent bulb is nothing compared to a gas lamp's output, which is why in this chapter Dr. Hopps turns them off when Quixano complains of being too warm.

As Dr. Hopps notes, there are indeed some mammals that are immune to the effects of taxines who might find yew leaves a delicacy rather than a painful and fatal poisoning. Considering the diversity of Zootopia, food safety would be a real concern.

Rabbits do have poor night vision, which I assume to also be the case in the world of Zootopia if only because in the movie Nick specifically lists his night vision as a special ability. 1881 is also before the first watches with luminous dials were created, hence why Dr. Hopps also has difficulty reading her pocket watch. The very first watches with luminous dials, available in the early 20th century, glowed in the dark because they had been painted with a paint that contained radium, which had horrible side effects for the people (mostly young women) who painted them. The painters were instructed to form their brushes to fine points using their mouths, which led to them ingesting small amounts of radium. The reason that radium paint glows is because it's radioactive, and even in small quantities can cause radiation poisoning. Many of the women who were employed as painters had to have their jaws removed due to the bone dying and the formation of tumors. If you're interested in reading more about the topic, "The Radium Girls: The Dark Story of America's Shining Women" by Kate Moore is a good but at times quite disturbing book.

It's somewhat common today, and was even more common in the past, for many European hotels to require guests to leave their keys at the front desk when they leave the hotel. The Chateau Talpen, being a luxury hotel, would have no such requirement as Dr. Hopps notes.

Air rifles did indeed exist in the 19th century, as the very first air rifle was invented around 1580. Air rifles offered a number of advantages over firearms through the late 19th century, as they were frequently more reliable, could fire more rapidly, were quieter, and produced neither a muzzle flash nor any smoke to give away the shooter's position. Air rifles also feature in a few of the original Sherlock Holmes stories, being the favored weapon of the notorious Colonel Moran.

1881 is a bit too early for a hotel, even a fancy one, to have telephones in each room that can be used to call the concierge for service. However, it was not out of the ordinary for luxury hotels to have bell pulls in each room, which are exactly what they sound like. There was a cord in the room for the guest to pull, which is connected by a series of wires (not necessarily electrical wires, mind you) to a bell that subsequently rings. There would typically be a panel of bells, each labelled with the associated room number, to allow someone to know when and from what room service was requested. Considering that Dr. Hopps fired a gun inside a hotel, it shouldn't be too surprising that the hotel staff sent someone to check on the room really fast.

As always, thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!


	6. Chapter 6

I was still unwilling to leave Quixano's suite, or indeed even open the door again, but I explained the events that had transpired to the receptionist as well as I could. I did my best to caution her of the dangers posed by the shooter, for I honestly did not know whether either of the shots I had fired in return had struck the stallion. I did request that the hotel staff not clean any of the hotel's corridors, for if I had successfully wounded the would-be murderer I thought it likely that he might leave a trail of blood that could be followed.

By the time that I made my request, the hotel manager had shown up at the door to the suite, and he mercifully agreed that the best course of action, both to entrap the shooter and protect the hotel's other guests, was to request that no one leave their rooms. He had bustled off with the receptionist to make the arrangements to do so, leaving me to consider what I could determine while still awaiting the arrival of the police.

I considered first the storm still raging outside. Although the blizzard outside had lost a fair portion of its strength, the wind still howled and massive drifts of snow had piled up around the hotel. I was hopeful that it meant the stallion would not dare to leave the hotel, but there was no telling what he might do in his desperation to avoid capture. I turned next to the bed, although I was careful to avoid disturbing the arrangement of sheets and pillows lest I spoil some clue for Wilde. I had to push a chair over to the side of the bed so that I could get the best possible view of where the projectile had struck. There was a hole plainly visible in one pillow, and while I could not tell whether the bullet had pierced the mattress I had no doubt that it would have inflicted a fatal wound if Quixano had been in the bed.

Quixano himself was still lost to the world, sleeping as peacefully as could be hoped for a mammal who had suffered a nearly lethal case of poisoning. I sighed as I eased myself to the floor at his side, for I knew that what would come next was something I had never been much good at. I waited.

It was nearly eight o'clock before the furiously howling winds outside died down to a gently whispering breeze, and it was a quarter past nine when I learned that the police had at last arrived. I heard the sound of several mammals walking down the hallway long before the knock came at the door, and I held my revolver in my pocket as I went to answer the somewhat timid call of Mr. Antoillier.

My vertigo and trembling had eased to the point that I could peep through the keyhole at the mammals in front of the door, and it was only once I was satisfied that the one in the lead wore the uniform of an inspector that I opened it. Upon opening the door, I saw three officers, all of them wolves, and behind them Antoillier, fidgeting with his fingers. "He wanted to talk to all the staff, first," the deer said uneasily as he gestured at the wolf in the lead, "Otherwise I would have come straight away."

One of the wolves following the inspector simply looked at Antoillier, her yellow eyes and long muzzle void of emotion. The deer froze momentarily, taking a great gulping breath, and then trotted off at a brisk walk.

I was not sure if the deer's uneasiness was because he had been unable to fulfil his promise to me or because he was afraid of the police officers. Certainly, all three wolves were tall and powerfully built, but I have never understood why any mammal could hold an inborn fear of wolves. I had known more than a few wolves in my army days, including my own orderly, and they had ever been steadfastly loyal and capable; if their tempers were perhaps a touch too fiery I had never seen it turned towards innocents. The wolf in the lead was physically somewhat atypical of his species, standing at least a head taller than either of the wolves at his side, but it was not merely his height that made him unusual. His fur was, so far as I could tell, completely white, though he could not have been more than forty, and his eyes were a blue so pale that were it not for his expression they might have looked like chips of ice. Indeed, unlike the seemingly near-perpetual scowl that Inspector Trunkaby wore whenever the long-suffering elephant had dealings with Wilde, the wolf's expression was positively avuncular as he took me in. "Well now," he said, and his words were just as cheerful as his expression, "You can relax, Miss, the police are here. Inspector Tobias Lupuson."

He hunkered down into a squat so that the five foot advantage he had over me in height was mitigated and offered me a paw to shake. "But you can call me Toby, please."

"Dr. Hopps," I said as I shook his paw.

The inspector nodded. "You've done fine work keeping Mr. Quixano alive, Dr. Hopps," he said, "Truly, very remarkable. I'm sure you must have been quite afraid, but it's all over now. Can you walk? We can take you to hospital along with Mr. Quixano."

His words were gentle and soothing, almost as though he were speaking to a kit, and I simply gaped up at him for a moment before I could find the proper words to answer. "I'm quite well," I said, trying not to allow either the tremble in my limbs or the touch of irritation I felt at the wolf's words show, "But Mr. Quixano was nearly murdered twice in the span of a few hours. How can it all be over? Have you caught the stallion?"

Inspector Lupuson blinked and seemed to evaluate me in a new light. "Of course," he said, "But you needn't worry yourself with those details, Dr. Hopps. It's not a story fit for your ears."

I drew myself up to my full height, insignificant though that was compared to the wolf, and did my best to stare him down. "Someone tried killing Mr. Quixano twice before he ever set foot in this hotel," I said firmly.

I only had the word of Quixano himself on this matter, but considering that I had witnessed two attempts myself, I did not find it difficult to believe that he had been honest. "He hired Nicholas Wilde to investigate the matter. Perhaps you've heard of—"

I stopped speaking as Inspector Lupuson suddenly crouched again and brought his nose to within inches of my face, audibly sniffing at me. It was a surprising and rather unseemly behaviour, and even his carefully cheerful expression had fallen away for a look of pure intensity as he seemed to catch a whiff of Wilde's scent. "Bless me," he said, shaking his head as he stood back up, "You _do_ know Wilde. He's done me a good turn, you know."

The fingers of Lupuson's right paw seemed to move of their own accord, brushing against two of the silver stars prominently displayed on the collar of his uniform. "But I'm afraid there's no need for his services, Dr. Hopps," he said, and his voice had lost its unnatural cheer and become quite sombre, "As I said, we have the would-be murderer."

"Perhaps," Wilde's voice suddenly came, "But I would be very interested in hearing the rest of the details."

"Wilde!" Lupuson and I said, very nearly in unison, although while he sounded thunderstruck I doubt the pleasure in my voice could be mistaken for anything else.

I had not even noticed Wilde's approach, so focused had I been on Lupuson, but there was no mistaking my friend. His Inverness cape, which was speckled with melting snow, flared dramatically as he eased past the two other wolf officers, and he pulled a telegram from his inner pocket. "It seems events have continued to transpire since you sent your—" Wilde had begun to speak before he caught sight of me, but his words ended the instant he and I locked eyes.

His own eyes narrowed suddenly, his tail swishing once before going suddenly rigid. I felt as though I was a specimen being examined under a microscope, such was the intensity of Wilde's gaze as he took in my appearance. Although I was much recovered, even compared to how I had felt when I had fended off Quixano's attacker, I supposed that there was no hiding the mild tremors that still occasionally ran through my body, though with ever-decreasing frequency. "You neglected to mention that you yourself had been poisoned along with the client," Wilde said, "Are you ill? Do you need a doctor yourself?"

His eyes had widened with concern as he rushed over, and it seemed to take him some amount of personal effort to refrain from reaching out with his paws to touch me. "I shall recover quite nicely," I said, "But your client—"

"The devil take the client!" Wilde interrupted, with a ferocity so completely out of character for him that I could only look up at him in wonder.

His ears were flat against his head and his tail lashed from side to side as he fixed his eyes upon me. "Do you think I could not find another? But however would I be to replace _you_?"

I could feel my ears flushing with warmth at Wilde's uncharacteristic display of emotion. I knew, of course, that Wilde considered me a friend just as much I considered him my friend. I still had the fine pocket watch he had given me for Christmas only two days previously as a physical token of how much he valued that friendship. But the fox—whose apparently open and airy attitude somehow served as an armour that blocked off what I supposed was the truth of his own feelings—had never allowed such raw emotion to suffuse his voice. Until that moment I had never understood just how deeply he valued me, and while I would not say that being poisoned was a fair trade off for that knowledge I was very glad to know it.

Wilde's tail curled briefly forward, brushing against my leg, before he gave a little cough and took a step back. "I apologize, Dr. Hopps," Wilde said, and while his features had reset themselves into their normal aloof mien there was a slight stiffness to his words, "I was quite the fool to send you here alone, and it would have been my fault had you... had you perished."

"You have nothing to apologize for. I _chose_ to come here," I said, gently though quite firmly, "The risk was mine to take and I am far from helpless."

As I spoke the last of my sentence I spared a glance towards Lupuson, who seemed to be studiously ignoring the conversation that Wilde and I were having. Wilde laughed. "I would never wish to be the mammal standing in your way," he said, and I was somewhat sorry to realize that the moment was gone, his apology and my refusal to accept it giving way to the normal order of things when Wilde was on a case.

"It _is_ good to see you again, Toby," Wilde said warmly, addressing Lupuson again, "Now, would you be so kind as to walk me through what you have learned?"

Lupuson nodded at the two wolves who had carefully ignored the conversation between Wilde and I even more diligently than their superior officer. "Wolford, Timberlake," he said, "Take care of Mr. Quixano. I'll be with Mr. Wilde and Dr. Hopps."

The two wolves nodded as they strode into the suite and carefully lifted the sleeping form of Quixano. The she-wolf—Timberlake, I thought—grunted with the effort, but the two wolves were able to support the muscular form of the mule, and though Quixano suddenly snorted and his tongue lolled out he did not wake. "We have a carriage waiting outside," Lupuson explained as the mule was carried out, "Glacier Hospital is not far."

I nodded, and while I was relieved to have the burden of caring for the mule lifted from my shoulders I could not say that my mind was completely at ease. "The streets are quite a mess," Wilde said to Lupuson, "It must have been a difficult trip for you to get here."

Wilde's observation sounded quite casual, but Lupuson seemed to catch a second meaning behind his words for a small and somehow bitter smile crossed his features. "I was considered the best suited to investigate the crime," the wolf said, shrugging his shoulders, "Besides, it could not have been an easy trip for you either."

"Quite the contrary," said Wilde, "The tramways ran late, but they did run. Now, let me see where my understanding of events ends. Mr. Quixano and Dr. Hopps had tea together in the restaurant connected to the hotel, tea which had been poisoned with yew leaves. When Quixano began succumbing to the effects of the poison, Dr. Hopps provided treatment and had him taken to his suite and placed on the floor. A mammal later opened the door using a key stolen from the hotel, and fired at Quixano. Dr. Hopps had, however, planned ahead and arranged the pillows on the bed such that the shooter was fooled and did not aim for the correct target. She returned fire, and I think it likely that only one bullet hit its mark."

"However could you know what happened in the morning?" Lupuson interrupted.

"It was quite trivial, really," Wilde replied, "I saw no signs of the lock being forced, and there is a key on the little table near the door. It is a simple thing, unlikely to be the key given to a hotel guest, and the obvious conclusion is that it must be the one used by housekeeping. Dr. Hopps, I am sure, left it there after removing it from the lock."

I had indeed, and I nodded. "There is a bullet lodged in the hallway wall opposite the suite's door, telling me Dr. Hopps missed at least one shot, but there is a small splatter of blood on the doorjamb telling me at least one hit. Since there are neither more bullet holes in the wall nor more blood on the walls or floor, I think it likely she only fired twice."

"Well, you are entirely correct," Lupuson said, "After firing, the shooter fled down the hallway. Come, let me show you."

Lupuson led Wilde and me out of the room, pausing only to allow me to lock the suite and ensure I had possession of both keys. "You see," Lupuson said, pausing at the intersection at the end of the hall, "Giuseppe Cavallo—the shooter, that is—steadied himself here, and then made his way to the nearest exit."

There was a smeared and bloody mark on the wall which had obviously been made by a horse or some other hooved mammal. The finger marks were fairly distinct, although the blood had run before drying, and little rivulets ran halfway down the wall. Wilde studied the bloody print, cocking his head from side to side before taking out a tape measure and using it to assess the mark. "So you have this Giuseppe Cavallo?" Wilde asked suddenly after several minutes of study as he put his tape measure away.

"His body, at least," Lupuson said.

The wolf hastily added, "Not that you killed him, Dr. Hopps. It was exposure that did it, I think; his body is frozen nearly solid outside."

"Hmm," Wilde muttered, and then spoke more loudly, "So what happened after he steadied himself here?"

"He went this way," Lupuson said, leading us down the corridor that the hallway intersected, "You see, there are more droplets of blood."

There were indeed occasional droplets of blood, standing out even on the patterned carpet of the floor, and we followed these to a solidly built door with a rusty streak of what could only be blood just above the doorknob. "This door leads outside," Lupuson explained, "Cavallo must have thought his only chance was to risk the storm, but he did not make it far."

The wolf opened the door, which was not nearly as elaborate or ornate as the hotel's main entrance, and we followed him out to the hotel's grounds. There had been an amazing transformation since my arrival the previous day; although I had not seen the backside of the hotel, where we stood at that moment, the snow had completely transformed the surrounding landscape. Great drifts of it piled against the hotel's walls, and had someone not laboured with a shovel to clear the stoop I doubt I would have been able to exit through the door. Beyond the hotel, I could see only the merest suggestions of roads, and I thought some of the shorter buildings of Tundra Town had been completely covered. "You see?" Lupuson said, and he gestured at a body half-buried in the snow perhaps ten or fifteen feet from the hotel that a police officer was digging out.

The body was that of a stallion, and while I could not be sure that it was the same horse who had attempted to murder Quixano I saw no reason why it could not be. The body was dressed in the uniform of a Chateau Talpen waiter, the few exposed brass buttons glimmering in the light of morning. The stallion's fur was a brown so dark it was nearly black, as was his mane, which had frozen into a wiry mass. His features were set in an expression of terrible despair or agony, and the fingers of one blood-stained hoof that jutted out from his icy tomb were curled around a rifle. Wilde studied the body carefully, and then turned to the police officer struggling to extricate the corpse. "The body has not been moved, has it?"

The officer, yet another wolf, looked up at Lupuson and waited for the inspector's nod before answering. "No, it's frozen in place."

Wilde nodded and said nothing. "It was quite cold until the storm broke," Lupuson offered, "Well below zero."

It must have warmed up considerably since then, for while it was still cold outside it was not bitingly so. "Tell me about Giuseppe Cavallo," he said, turning his attention from the officer doing the grim work of excavating the body to Lupuson, "You interviewed his co-workers, did you not?"

"I did," Lupuson said, "There's not much to tell, though. He's been—or rather was—a waiter in the Chateau Talpen's restaurant since '79 and he tried to kill Quixano for being a mule."

Wilde cocked his head to the side. "And how do you know his motive behind attempting murder?" he asked.

"Why, by interviewing his fellow workers. Everyone who knows him at all says the same: he despised hybrids. Several of the other wait staff said he would carry on about the measure to be taken up in Parliament. He was, of course, entirely for a law against miscegenation."

Wilde nodded thoughtfully, as did I. Mixed species couples were so vanishingly rare, and so infrequently capable of producing offspring, that I thought few mammals paid them much thought unless confronted with the proof of a taboo coupling. "Did any of them know where this hatred of his came from?" I asked, and Lupuson shrugged.

"They say he was fond of saying that hybrids are mentally and physically feeble, and infertile besides, but if he had a reason to hate a particular hybrid he never mentioned it," the wolf said.

"Including Quixano?" Wilde asked.

"One of the waitresses said Cavallo had been making rude jokes about Quixano ever since the mule checked in five days ago, but if they ever had any sort of confrontation no one else saw it," Lupuson replied.

Wilde lapsed into silence, turning to watch the wolf digging Cavallo's body out of the snow, and I turned inwards myself. Certainly, it made perfect sense that Cavallo was the one who had attempted to kill Quixano. The evidence all pointed towards it, and if the horse had lacked a specific motive, he had held a more general hatred of hybrids. Perhaps he had been overcome by envy that a mule could afford a stay in a luxury hotel while he was merely a waiter. It seemed as though Lupuson was correct, and the case had no need of Wilde's talents. And yet I could not help but feel a nagging suspicion that events had not transpired quite so neatly. Quixano had never specified to me when the two previous attempts on his life had been made, but I guessed they must have occurred prior to his stay at the hotel. Perhaps Cavallo had previously encountered the mule and held some old grudge, but it seemed an unlikely coincidence that the mule would just so happen to stay in the hotel that would provide an opportunity for that grudge to be settled.

When the wolf doing the digging had cleared the snow from Cavallo's legs, Wilde leaned in to examine them more closely. "Dr. Hopps," he said, "Would you agree that Mr. Cavallo's fetlocks are broken?"

I made my way over through the dense drifts of snow until I could examine the horse myself. Wilde was no sort of doctor, but I think anyone with even a modicum of medical knowledge would have seen what he had. Although the horse's flesh had frozen to the hardness of metal and I could not palpate the limbs as effectively as I could a living patient, I had no need to. The angles his feet made relative to his legs was evidence enough of bad breaks. "I would," I said, and my suspicion that events were not so tidy felt confirmed.

"What does that mean?" Lupuson asked, looking first at Wilde and then at me in turn.

"What it means, Toby," Wilde said, and he clapped a friendly paw on the wolf's arm, "Is that I'm afraid your series of deductions is almost entirely wrong."

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Before my usual chapter notes, I've got to follow up on my promise from last chapter. This chapter is the 100th chapter I've posted, and I decided to mark the occasion by making an audio version of the first chapter of "…And All that Jazz," which you can listen to on SoundCloud. I can't directly link, but if you search for my username, WANMWAD, you can find it on that site.

I am far from a professional voiceover guy, but it was a lot of fun to make. I might try other audio works in the future; I'd appreciate any feedback in that regard. I really am incredibly grateful to have so many wonderful readers, and I hope you'll continue to enjoy my work!

Although Inspector Lestrade is easily the member of Scotland Yard that shows up the most in adaptations of Sherlock Holmes, he isn't the only member of the police that Sherlock has dealings with. Similarly, in this series of stories, it won't always be Inspector Trunkaby. In this particular story, Tobias Lupuson serves as a reference to two different characters from the Sherlock Holmes canon: Tobias Gregson, a police inspector that Sherlock considers to be the best of the bunch (not necessarily high praise, considering his typically dim view of the police), and Toby, a dog with an incredible sense of smell. Lupuson is naturally formed by combining the Latin word for wolf, "lupus," with the suffix "son."

I thought that it logically followed from this setting that while there wouldn't be dogs in this setting, scent-tracking would still be a useful skill for the police and a wolf inspector fit. I also thought it would be somewhat amusing to contrast the attitudes of Dr. Hopps and Lupuson. Her internal monologue suggests that while she holds pretty enlightened views for the time period she still holds some prejudices about predators that sometimes comes out as condescension, and Lupuson in turn figuratively (and literally) talks down to her at first because he pretty clearly makes some assumptions based on her being a bunny.

As an American, one of the things I find interesting about British English is that in much the same way that Americans would say that they're going to school, a Brit would say that they're going to hospital. An American wouldn't leave out the definite article "the" for hospital the way we would for other things, and it's interesting to see that kind of linguistic drift.

Officer Wolford is naturally named for the character in the movie, while Officer Timberlake's name suggests that she's a timber wolf.

The uniform of a 19th century British police inspector would indeed have two silver stars on each side of the collar; more specifically they would be Order of the Bath stars.

For a visual representation of Wilde's Inverness cape, you can refer to the wonderful cover art that yelnatsdraws did for this story, which shows exactly what such a cape looks like. It's essentially a coat that has a short cape built into it, and was a common item of menswear in the 19th century. Really, though, if you're wearing a cape just about all of your entrances will be dramatic.

In the 19th century the UK still officially used imperial units of measure despite British scientist James Prescott Joule being the one who mathematically proved the equivalence of mechanical and thermal energy, which is key to the International System of Units. Thus, when Lupuson says the temperature was below zero the previous night, that would be in degrees Fahrenheit, meaning the temperature was lower than -17.7 degrees Celsius. At temperatures that low, hypothermia can set in rather quickly, and while horses can withstand low temperatures better than humans can, merely having fur is not enough.

Giuseppe Cavallo's last name is, quite simply, the Italian word for horse, which is also a real last name.

Miscegenation is, in my opinion, a pretty dirty word, as while it only literally means the mixing of kinds, it has historically been used to refer to interracial couples in a disapproving light. In the real world, the UK has never had laws banning interracial marriage (a claim that the US, unfortunately, cannot also make), but that does not mean that there was not support, at various different times, for putting such laws into effect.

Lupuson's explanation of Cavallo's beliefs suggest that the horse believed in some form of scientific racism, which is of course not actually scientific but is instead the attempt to justify racist beliefs using scientific methodology. Particularly in the 19th century, such beliefs were relatively common, despite the dodgy justifications (such as phrenology) used.

Fetlocks are, more or less, the horse equivalent of ankles in their hind legs, although they're actually modified knuckles rather than true ankles. Fetlock injuries are also one of the leading injuries for racehorses, and a broken fetlock can be difficult to heal.

As always, thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!


	7. Chapter 7

I had known Wilde long enough that, while I knew not how he had come to his conclusion, I did not doubt him. Whatever history the fox had with Lupuson, however, did not seem adequate to overcome the inspector's scepticism of me if not of Wilde's deductive prowess. "Surely the bunny must be mistaken," Lupuson said, "Really, however could Cavallo make it here on two broken fetlocks?"

I might have said that Wilde had asked me to confirm his deduction but he spoke before I had the opportunity. "Obviously he could not," Wilde replied, "And Dr. Hopps has made no mistake."

A frown crossed Lupuson's muzzle, and his chin seemed to set itself at an obdurate angle. "Then he must have fallen while fleeing," the wolf said at last, "Horses are well-known to be prone to leg injuries, after all. He then dragged himself to where we stand now and expired. Really, it makes not the slightest bit of difference."

Wilde scratched at the underside of his muzzle, and I thought I saw the start of a wry smile cross his face briefly. "Cavallo did take something of a fall," Wilde said, "And it does make quite a bit of difference. Now, suppose we go back to how this stallion found himself out here. You are correct that he fled Quixano's suite after the good doctor shot him; if we turn the corpse over we shall have proof enough of that."

Wilde rolled one paw in an impatient gesture, and the officer who had been excavating the body, and had only moments ago finished, gave a great grunt of effort as he pushed hard enough to roll the frozen form of Giuseppe Cavallo onto his back. Once I could see the stallion's breast, the injury my shot had caused was obvious; there was a bloody stain, stark against the fabric of his waiter's uniform, to the left side of his rib cage. "I am certain it was quite painful, but equally certain that it was not an immediately fatal wound. His right hoof is bloody from applying pressure to it, but I doubt the bullet penetrated the ribs."

"Unless infection set in, I see no reason that this wound would have been fatal at all," I interjected, "I have seen horses recover from far worse."

Indeed, from my cursory examination of Cavallo it was obvious that the bullet had not pierced the thoracic cavity, but had instead most likely lodged itself between two of the stallion's ribs. Wilde was quite right that it would have been an agonizing wound, the sort liable to crack a rib and result in a miserably long recovery, but I was certain of my diagnosis and was gratified to see him nod in acceptance even as Lupuson's frown deepened. "Yes, yes," the wolf said impatiently, "It is why he fled rather than press the attack, which was rather fortunate for you, Dr. Hopps."

The wolf had turned his attention to me, and his voice had taken on the same patronizingly soothing tone it had when we had first met. "Wounded or not, Cavallo could have torn you apart."

"Would you fancy your own odds against a horse?" I challenged.

I had tolerated what I felt was quite enough of what I considered to be Lupuson's galling lack of respect, and while the words left my mouth of their own volition I did not think I was wrong. Although the wolf was tall and powerfully built, Cavallo had been taller yet with a significantly thicker build. Although I could not deny that had the stallion been able to put fingers on me it would have ended poorly, I would not believe Lupuson would have fared much better. The wolf coughed and stood up a touch straighter. "At any rate, we have the bloodstains in the hallway leading out the door and I know it to be Cavallo's blood. That much is indisputable; you might recall how extraordinary my nose is, Mr. Wilde."

As Lupuson spoke, apparently unable to come up with a retort and forced simply to change the subject, he tapped one finger against his nose. I was familiar enough with wolves from my army days to know that, should one say that two scents matched, there was nothing for it other than to accept it as the truth. "I do," Wilde replied, "And I also recall your nose alone could never have found the fawn."

I admit I found no small amount of pleasure in seeing how Lupuson's mouth worked wordlessly for a moment while Wilde looked up at him with a seemingly bored expression upon his face before the wolf managed to say, "I never disputed that I had help."

"Indeed you have not," Wilde said cheerfully, "And I hope you shall recall, from that auspicious case, that a thing may not be so simple as it appears."

Lupuson was quiet a moment, and then he sighed. "Then explain for me what you think happened," he said at last.

"I noticed something rather queer while tracing the route that Cavallo took," Wilde said, "From Dr. Hopps's testimony, we know that a stallion set off down the hallway, in the direction of the intersection with the bloody hoof print on the wall."

I couldn't help but notice that Wilde had not named Cavallo directly and could not help but interrupt. "Do you mean to say there was a second stallion?" I asked, but Wilde simply shook his head.

If he was at all perturbed by the disruption, he gave no sign of it. "Yes and no," he said, "I could be wrong, of course, but it should be a simple matter to confirm by extracting the bullet lodged in the unfortunate Mr. Cavallo. I do believe that you shot the would-be assassin, but I do not believe he acted alone. After all, had he been alone, it might make some sense for him to flee upstairs to avoid capture, but why then would he drink poison and jump out a window?"

Wilde spoke confidently, but even with what I knew of his methods I was at something of a loss as to how he had reached such a seemingly bizarre conclusion, a reaction Lupuson obviously shared. "Upstairs? Poison? God, Wilde, the evidence is clear. He—"

"He held one hoof against his wound to staunch the flow of blood," Wilde interrupted firmly, "But running full out down the hallway, a rifle clenched in the opposite hoof, he lost his balance and briefly supported himself against the wall with his bloody hoof."

"Which only shows he headed towards the door!" Lupuson said, and I could hear the confusion in his voice.

"It most certainly does not," Wilde replied, "There is no mark left by Cavallo's thumb, so the mark is somewhat ambiguous, but the lengths of the fingers in the bloodstain and simple logic make it clear he did not head for the door."

I thought back on what Wilde had explained so far and suddenly realized what he meant. "His right hoof is the one that was bloody," I said, "If he had turned towards the door, he would have had to reach across his body to lean against the wall."

"Full marks, Dr. Hopps," Wilde said approvingly, "You're entirely correct. Yes, if Cavallo had turned right, he would have braced himself with his left hoof, and likely left a dent in the wainscoting from the rifle. In fact, he turned left, and consequently used the arm that was then closest to the wall for support. The shape of the streaks he left behind make this obvious."

"But if he went the other way down the hallway, why is there blood leading towards the door?" Lupuson challenged.

"Because it was applied after the fact," Wilde said, "You may look at the streak upon the door and see it was daubed on from a cloth. It shows a trace of the fabric's weave. I would conjecture that the second mammal provided some treatment to Cavallo's wound, and later wrung out the cloth to dribble blood upon the floor to hide their own involvement."

"Supposing he did go upstairs, then," Lupuson began slowly, "Why are there no bloodstains leading towards the stairs?"

"The carpeting in the hallway does not cover the stairs, which are made of slate, as is the area at the immediate foot of the staircase. I would suppose any incriminating marks were cleaned," Wilde said.

"I specifically asked the hotel staff not to clean anything," I said, but it was a feeble statement and I knew it.

"I doubt the second mammal was on the hotel staff," Wilde said, and I nodded.

"Mr. Cavallo never walked through the door, then," I said, "After all, how could he have? I expect the stoop would not have been shovelled at that time."

From the height of the snow drifts surrounding the hotel, I would not have been surprised if before shovelling the snow had been four or five feet high around the door. "Indeed, it would have been a tricky exit," Wilde said, "Perhaps the mammal who cleaned up any blood on the stairs also shovelled the stoop. It would have needed to be convincing, after all."

"So you suggest he was thrown out a window after being poisoned," I said, and Wilde nodded.

"The fall explains the broken fetlocks. The poisoning explains quite a bit more. You see the awful grimace his features are set into? In my experience, a death of exposure alone is about as peaceful a death as could be hoped for. The organism gradually fades in strength with a total lack of awareness preceding death. Cavallo, however, obviously died in agony."

A fall from a window, even onto snow, did strike me as a plausible means by which Cavallo's fetlocks might have been broken. Despite Cavallo's muscular build, he had the delicate forelegs typical of his species, and I had seen all too well how susceptible to injuries of the fetlock horses were.

Cavallo did indeed look as though he had suffered terribly, and when I examined his face more closely I noticed that his mouth was full of ulcerations that must have formed quite recently. I had noticed, when the body had first been turned over, that the area around the bullet wound in his chest had turned black, but what I had initially considered the result of his body freezing I saw was actually a discolouration that affected even his fur, difficult though it was to tell against its deep brown. I made a connection instantly and added, "Someone rubbed corrosive sublimate on his wound. He drank some too, I would say."

I had never held a high opinion of corrosive sublimate, considering it an evil to be avoided whenever possible, and I had never used it as an antiseptic. In my army days I would have only considered prescribing corrosive sublimate as a treatment for _lues venerea_ , and then only as a topical treatment. I had heard from a fellow doctor about a soldier who attempted to shirk his duty by drinking a quantity of corrosive sublimate, expecting only that it would make him too ill to serve for a matter of days. Instead it had proven fatal although the unfortunate soldier had lingered nearly a week. I had never forgotten that story, and I could not help but recall that soldier's fate as I examined Cavallo's body.

"I am pleased to hear you agree with my deduction, especially since I did not mention corrosive sublimate," Wilde said, and I suspected that his words were meant for Lupuson nearly as much as they were meant for me, "I am well up in poisons, but I have never made a systemic study of medicine."

"A loss for the medical profession," I said, lightly enough, although I did think Wilde could have made an excellent doctor had his natural aptitude not turned him towards investigations.

"Do you suppose it was mixed into an alcoholic drink?" I asked Wilde, for it seemed to me the most obvious way of masking the unsavoury flavour; poisoning by corrosive sublimate was not a quick death by any means, and the substance itself was purported to have an acrid taste.

"Quite probably," he replied, "Although I think it unfortunately likely that the room Cavallo was thrown from has been scoured of evidence, his killer has committed sufficient mistakes that I am not entirely pessimistic of our chances to find additional clues."

"Supposing the two of you are right," Lupuson said, "Why would another mammal attempt to kill Cavallo? And in such a way?"

Lupuson's tone was not exactly sceptical, but I understood his concern. "You don't know who Quixano is, do you?" I asked, for I realized that there was a crucial bit of information that had not likely not made it to the police.

"A wealthy mule, by all appearances," Lupuson said, "Why?"

"Not merely a wealthy mule," Wilde replied, "Lawrence Quixano is the son of the late Lord Lawrence Whinnypeg, Earl of Meadowlands."

Lupuson uttered a curse too foul to reproduce here and then coughed, his ears tucking back in embarrassment at the unseemly outburst caused by the hot-blooded temperament typical of his species. "My apologies, ma'am," he said, somewhat awkwardly, and I brushed aside the apology.

The wolf's tension did anything but evaporate, however, and he began to pace back and forth, his feet sinking into the deep drifts of snow surrounding Cavallo's body. "If my superiors had known, they never would have sent _me_ ," he said, and I thought I caught a note of despair in his voice, "This will have to be resolved quickly, do you understand?"

He directed this last at Wilde, who nodded. "I have always attempted to solve the cases I take with all deliberate speed," Wilde said, as gravely as I had ever heard him make a pronouncement.

"You see the answers to your own questions, I imagine," Wilde said after a moment, as Lupuson's anxious pacing continued, "The obvious conclusion is that Cavallo was a loose end to be tied up, and that the desired impression was that he had acted alone. Doubtlessly it was his prejudice towards hybrids, apparently well-known to his fellow employees, as well as his position in the hotel that attracted the true mastermind behind the attempts on Quixano's life to him."

"Who is that mastermind?" Lupuson asked immediately, but Wilde put out a placating paw.

"I do not know. It is curious, however, how different the two attempts on Quixano's life were. Poisoning by yew is much subtler than being shot, after all. It may be that the would-be killer became desperate to see their goal achieved quickly, or it may be suggestive of..."

Wilde trailed off, apparently seeing how he had obtained Lupuson's full attention. "Well, it bears further investigation," Wilde finished smoothly, "The matter now, however, is what the murder of Cavallo tells us."

I thought about what I could deduce from where Cavallo's body had fallen. I did not think any mammal, save perhaps an elephant, could have thrown a horse ten or fifteen feet away from the hotel. However, even if Cavallo had been tossed to the exact point where he had been found, why had he been facing the hotel with the rifle clenched in one hoof? It did not seem likely to me that whoever had thrown him from a window would allow him to keep his weapon, and I said as much to Wilde. "If he was thrown from a window, why does he still have the air rifle?" I asked, "Do you suppose his murderer planted it on him after his death?"

It seemed to me the possibility that made the most sense, but Wilde shook his head. "Not quite," he said, "Let us consider what happened after Cavallo ran up the stairs. I am sure he met with another mammal, likely in their room."

"And that mammal provided some treatment to Cavallo's bullet wound as an excuse to gather blood and then gave him a poisoned drink," Lupuson interrupted impatiently, "What then?"

"The murderer likely waited until the poison began to take effect," Wilde said, "Cavallo was likely in a terrific amount of pain and may not have noticed that he had been poisoned. But the murderer could not wait too long. After all, Dr. Hopps's gunshots undoubtedly raised the alarm, and the murderer must have known it possible for Cavallo to have left a trail of blood leading right to their door. Thus, I suggest they pushed Cavallo out the window and then threw the rifle out after him. Having disposed of the two major pieces of evidence of their involvement, the murderer then tampered with the crime scene to muddy the waters further."

"I did request the hotel staff to hold all guests until the police arrived," I said, "Did you instruct your officers to allow no one to leave?"

Lupuson's relief was visible. "I did," he said, and then he turned to the officer who had excavated Cavallo's corpse and waited through our conversation in silence, before barking out an order.

"Make sure that order is upheld," he said, "Go!"

The other wolf nodded and then took off for the door into the hotel at a truly remarkable speed. "Well, this might still turn out quite simple after all," Lupuson said, his expression turning back towards good cheer, "It should be no great difficulty for you to find the room Cavallo was thrown from, and from there the guest."

"Perhaps," was all that Wilde said, "But did you not wonder why Cavallo died holding the rifle?"

"Mammals do queer things when dying of exposure," Lupuson said dismissively, "I have seen cases where the victim stripped themselves completely naked, as though it were too hot rather than too cold. Perhaps in Cavallo's final moments he thought he might take a shot against the mammal who threw him from the window. Now, we really must find the room."

Lupuson had already started to walk away when Wilde called him back. "This will take but a moment," Wilde said, and he gestured down at the rifle still held in Cavallo's bloodstained hoof.

"Now, I suggested that Cavallo and the rifle were thrown from the window separately. The rifle, of course, could be thrown a greater distance, and it must have taken Cavallo an excruciating effort to reach it. Once he did, forced to pull himself along with his arms thanks to his broken fetlocks, he headed back for the hotel and did not quite make it, dying of some combination of exposure and poison. But why did he not simply attempt to drag himself to the hotel, with no effort at retrieving the rifle?"

Although Lupuson seemed to be in no hurry to guess, I thought the matter over myself. "If the rifle was to be buried in the snow, it might not be found for weeks, or perhaps months," I said, "Cavallo must have wanted it to be found."

"Indeed," Wilde said, "And the reason why should be obvious upon examining the rifle itself."

At Wilde's words, I took a closer look at the air rifle. It was a beautifully made weapon, with a gleaming stock of finely-grained wood, and all of the metal pieces I could see had been silver-plated and elegantly filigreed. "Yes, yes, it's not the sort of weapon a waiter could afford," Lupuson said impatiently, "What of it?"

Although Lupuson had not spotted what Wilde clearly had, I did. The engravings upon the rifle were mostly arabesque patterns of interlinked leaves, flowers, and vines, but there was a single letter engraved in the stock of the rifle. There, in perfect blackletter, was an unmistakable "W" nearly an inch tall. I tapped the letter and watched Lupuson's eyes widen as he realized what it meant. Perhaps it was an attempt at framing, or perhaps it had simply been an oversight on the part of Cavallo's murderer, but I was sure that the original owner of the rifle had been a member of the Whinnypeg family.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

In an exciting bit of news for me, this story was featured this week on the Zootopia News Network, a website I highly recommend checking out if you're not already familiar with it. They've got a truly remarkable amount of Zootopia content that they feature, everything from fan art and fan fiction to music videos and toys, and I consider it a great honor to have my story appear there. DrummerMax64 did a great write up for my story, and I greatly appreciate the work that both he and the entire ZNN team do to keep updating the site on such a regular basis!

Dr. Hopps definitely has a point when she asks Lupuson how well he thinks he'd fare in a fight against a horse when he continues to be dismissive towards her. In the wild, wolves will sometimes attempt to hunt horses, but it can be pretty dangerous for them. Horses can easily kick hard enough to break bones, and a lone wolf would be unlikely to succeed in taking one down (although a pack would be a different story).

Slate was a popular building material in the 19th century, as steam engines made the manufacture of slate tiles incredibly cheap and slate has a number of attractive properties. Slate naturally forms in such a way that it can easily be split into thin sheets and it's non-porous and consequently is highly resistant to cracking from repeated freeze-thaw cycles the way many other stones are. In addition to its use as a building material, particularly for extremely durable roofs, slate is also what traditional chalkboards are made of (hence the expression "clean slate").

Wilde is correct in stating that hypothermia can be a relatively painless way to die. If it's cold enough outside, the brain begins shutting down, and a loss of consciousness occurs before death.

Corrosive sublimate is an archaic term for mercuric chloride, a compound of mercury and chlorine. As the archaic name implies, it's nasty stuff; although it's a dangerous poison it's not a fast acting one. It readily dissolves in water or alcohol, and if consumed the mercury can then be quickly absorbed into the body, causing irritation, sores, and eventual organ failure. Death by mercuric chloride poisoning can take days, typically due to kidney failure, and is an extremely painful way to die.

Despite how lethal it is as a poison, mercuric chloride saw widespread use in the 19th century as a treatment for syphilis; sufferers would rub it on their sores. It wasn't a particularly effective cure, and it's likely that many symptoms that were commonly attributed to syphilis were actually the result of mercury poisoning from the treatment. The dangers of mercuric chloride became widespread knowledge in the public consciousness in 1920, when American actress Olive Thomas made a terrible mistake while drunk. She accidentally drank her husband's syphilis medicine (he was something of a philanderer) instead of her sleeping medicine, and died five days later.

It was one of the first Hollywood scandals, as wild rumors flew around about Olive Thomas deliberately committing suicide (either after realizing her husband had given her syphilis or in response to his unfaithfulness) or her husband tricking her into drinking the medicine as an insurance scheme. It seems likely that it was a horrible accident, but it definitely impressed upon the public just how dangerous mercuric chloride is.

In the 19th century, in addition to being marketed as a cure for sores caused by syphilis and other diseases, mercuric chloride was also sold as a powder for eliminating bedbugs, an antiseptic, and as a component (in very low quantities) of some laxatives. Outside of dubious and dangerous household and medical uses, mercuric chloride was historically used for developing photographs. All of these various uses meant that it was very easy to get mercuric chloride.

Dr. Hopps's assessment of the dangers of mercuric chloride are in line with her opinion in "A Study in Gold" to prefer a tincture of iodine or carbolic acid as antiseptics. Neither of those will cause mercury poisoning, and while the dangers of mercury weren't quite as well understood in the 19th century as they are today, a reasonably competent doctor would be right to be leery of any medicine containing it. Referencing her army days, a military doctor would definitely be familiar with the signs of and treatments for syphilis, which was once incredibly common among soldiers. The term "lues venerea" is Latin for "venereal plague" and is an archaic term for syphilis. As syphilis was incurable in the 19th century and it was known to be sexually transmitted, there was a significant social stigma around the disease, which Dr. Hopps is somewhat delicately avoiding naming directly.

The expression "to muddy the waters," meaning to make a situation more confusing or complicated, dates at least to the late 1830s, so its appearance here is appropriate.

The phenomenon that Lupuson describes, of people taking off their clothes while dying of hypothermia, is something that does actually happen. It's called paradoxical undressing and no one is quite sure why it happens. It may be that the hypothalamus stops functioning correctly at low temperature and the person begins to feel warm, or it might be exhaustion of the muscles controlling the peripheral blood vessels causing the limbs to flood with blood and inducing a sensation of warmth.

Blackletter is a term for a gothic font; that is, the sort of calligraphic script seen from the 15th century onwards consisting of letters with tall, narrow letters formed by sharp, angular lines.

As always, thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!


	8. Chapter 8

Lupuson rushed over and pried the rifle out of Cavallo's hoof, the frozen blood yielding almost instantly to him. "One of the _Whinnypegs_ killed Cavallo?" he said, turning to face Wilde, "And tried and failed to kill the mule?"

Wilde paused a moment before answering, tapping the stem of his unlit pipe against his teeth while he rummaged through his pocket for a match with his free paw. "Perhaps," he said at last, once his pipe was lit, "It is certainly suggestive but an unbiased mind is, I think, a necessary component of this investigation."

Wilde paused again, turning to exhale a great lungful of smoke before he spoke again. "Or perhaps in all matters," he said, and while his tone was light his gaze moved briefly from me to Lupuson.

The wolf chuckled, apparently missing the significance of the look the fox had given him. "In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, the obvious suspect is the culprit," he said, "What other possible conclusion could you draw?"

Wilde smiled briefly. "Why, there are at least half-a-dozen or so solutions I could propose that involve the Whinnypeg family not at all—excepting, of course, poor Mr. Quixano as the victim—but there are far too many unknowns as of yet to determine the truth of the matter."

Lupuson chuckled again, a touch more ruefully than he had just moments ago, and said, "You do have something of a knack for finding that one case in a hundred, I suppose."

"Life would be quite boring otherwise," Wilde agreed, his tone quite cheerful, "Now, I do have hopes that the site of Mr. Cavallo's defenestration will be at least somewhat illuminating."

With that, Wilde turned back towards the hotel and began walking towards the same door we had used to enter the courtyard, and both Lupuson and I hurried after him. Wilde was moving slowly, his eyes fixed on the snow drifts, and I considered what he was seeing. The only prints in the snow that I could see were the ones that had been made by Lupuson, the other wolf officer, Wilde, and myself; the combination of accumulating snow and driving winds must have erased all traces from the previous night. "How _did_ you know he had been thrown from a window?" I asked, "Besides the blood in the hallway, I mean. Is there some clue in the snow?"

I had followed Wilde's chain of logic easily enough when he had presented his theory, but I wondered if there was something he had used besides his deductions about the bloodstains. "There," Wilde said, pointing at a shallow depression in the snow close to the building, "You see? Something quite heavy was thrown from a window to leave a disturbance in the snow large enough that not even the storm could erase it. Cavallo's body was the logical possibility, from what I observed in the hall."

I examined the snow more closely as we passed. To my eye, the snow bank looked more as though it had been shaped by the unpredictable winds of the previous night, but I supposed that to Wilde it was as obvious as though it had been painted red. As we re-entered the hotel, Lupuson gave the rifle to an officer watching the door and held a brief conversation about getting it to evidence, and the officer departed. Immediately afterwards, Wilde turned to look at Lupuson and said, "Perhaps you would be so kind as to examine the stairs with that splendid nose of yours before we make our ascent."

The wolf nodded and, to my great surprise, dropped to all fours, beginning to energetically sniff at the floor, his head turning from side to side in quick little motions. Lupuson seemed completely lost in concentration, his eyes screwed shut, and Wilde touched my arm briefly to hold me back as the wolf slowly moved towards the stairs, not speaking until the wolf was at the foot of the stairs. "Can you manage the stairs?" Wilde murmured in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper, "There is an elevator."

I looked up at my friend, whose face showed no sign that I could see of mocking or condescension. It was simply a question, one that even his deductive prowess could not directly answer. We had known each other long enough for him to know that my bad leg became ever worse the longer that I was up and about, and I had been both awake and active for quite some time, to say nothing of the traces of poison still running through my veins. On several occasions when the pain and numbness in my leg had been particularly bad, he had offered his assistance with stairs. Although I was, of course, quite grateful for his help on those occasions when I needed it, I was far more grateful for all the times he did not ask. Wilde had never given me any indication that he thought the less of me for being crippled, a consideration that unfortunately did not extend to every mammal I met in the city. Still, although my head was pounding with the remnants of my headache and my mounting exhaustion, and the occasional tremor ran through my body, I felt up to the task of climbing a flight of stairs and said as much. "I shall manage," I said, and Wilde nodded, accepting my answer with no argument.

As we made our way over to where Lupuson was still sniffing at the stairs, the wolf stood up and turned to face us. "I smell Javole water," he announced, "In rather large quantities, at that."

Wilde stroked his chin but did not speak, nor did he need to. Although I could not claim to have a sense of smell nearly as refined as either the fox or the wolf, I was quite familiar with Javole water, which any good hospital or operating room would keep in stock for its disinfectant properties. Its ability to remove both the scent and stains of blood were, however, the properties that I supposed had been of particular interest to whoever had cleaned the stairs. "Then let us continue," Wilde said, and although the staircase was reasonably wide we proceeded with Lupuson in the lead, Wilde behind, and myself last.

The slate of the stairs was cool beneath my feet, and although it had been worked to a great smoothness it was not as treacherously slick as marble. Indeed, with the banister for aid I found I had little difficulty climbing the stairs, and it was shortly after we reached the first storey that Lupuson's keen nose found a clue far more definite than the smell of Javole water. There was a tiny speckle of blood, hardly more than a pinprick and nearly invisible against the darkly coloured slate of the stairs, beneath one of the treads, and Lupuson's excitement at finding it was obvious. "So!" the wolf exclaimed, after pointing it out, "We see you are right again, Mr. Wilde."

"Smell more than see, I suppose," Wilde replied, although he made no other attempt to dissuade Lupuson from his flattery, "Is the scent of Javole water still strong where the staircase turns to reach the second storey?"

"It is," Lupuson said, and we followed the detective up until we reached the landing, him back on all fours and eagerly sniffing away.

Lupuson's nose found another drop of blood, one that I could not see for it had fallen onto one of the dark diamonds of the carpet's pattern in the corridor, but as we continued his face suddenly resolved itself into an expression of disgust, one that was quickly mirrored on Wilde's. I did not understand what had caught the two predator's attention so negatively until Lupuson stopped in front of the door to a suite, at which point I caught a whiff of an overpoweringly unpleasant combination of vanilla extract and Javole water. Lupuson stood and knocked at the door, an expression of distaste poorly repressed across his face, and called, "Police! Is there anyone inside?"

When no response came, Lupuson tried the doorknob, which turned easily in his paw, and slowly opened the door, at which point the scent only intensified. Wilde, I noticed, had drawn out his handkerchief and placed it against his nose, while Lupuson simply kept one paw clapped against his own. I found myself quite grateful for my lesser sense of smell and studied the room even as Lupuson backed out. "You seem to have this well-sorted, Wilde," he said, his voice muffled and made almost comical by the paw he kept tight against his nose, "I shall see how the interviews of the guests are progressing, eh? Do tell me if you spot anything useful."

Lupuson quickly vanished down the hallway without even waiting for a response from Wilde, who started to turn in a slow circle around the room. He was silent, his tail swishing from side to side, but in contrast to the movements of his body his brilliantly green eyes seemed to dart about, taking in everything that could be seen. The room itself looked to have been the spit and image of the one in which I had tended to Quixano, for it was not only built to the same scale but was also, so far as I could tell, utterly identical in layout and furnishings.

The similarities did not extend past that, however, for while Quixano's room had looked as though housekeeping had kept everything in perfect order, the room the bloody trail had led to was in complete disarray. Bottles of what could have only been Javole water had been shattered against the floor, seeping into the carpet, and I could only imagine that at least three or four gallons had been sacrificed in this manner. Indeed, Wilde and I had to step gingerly around the shards of glass, which littered much of the floor. The stains it had caused in the carpet did not quite hide other, darker stains, but I turned my attention from these to the rest of the room. Great gouges had been carved into the wallpaper nearest the large window that overlooked the courtyard, and there were deep scratches in the frame of the window itself. In the fireplace I saw the sooty remnants of burnt cloth, and the surface of the fine writing desk in the room had been bleached of colour by Javole water to an extent even greater than that of the carpeting. The chair that had gone along with the writing desk had been smashed into kindling, and the other furniture in the room looked as though a mad mammal had taken a knife to them, tearing away at the upholstery.

I kept my observations to myself, however, and maintained a discreet distance from Wilde as the fox carefully manoeuvred his way through the room, pausing at times to pull his tape measure and use it against various features of the room. As he worked, the handkerchief he had held against his nose vanished into his pocket again, the smell seemingly blocked by the intense focus with which he conducted his examination. At times, I could hear him mutter to himself phrases which made no sense to me as he contorted himself about the room, at times on all fours and at others stretched on a single leg, but he seemed to have no needs of making notes of any kind.

It took perhaps half an hour before he at last straightened himself and turned his attention back towards me. "So what do you make of this, Dr. Hopps?" he asked, gesturing to take in the suite even as we stepped outside the room.

"There are marks near the window," I said, "Someone was thrown from the window, but they made some effort to avoid their fate."

"Indeed," Wilde said, "There are also stains upon the wallpaper where rather undiluted Javole water was, I think, used to scrub away the bloodstains left by Cavallo's hoof."

"I think it is obvious someone took great care to leave behind no trace of themselves," I continued, "The Javole water was used to address the bloodstains Cavallo left and, with the vanilla extract, to cover the scent of the murderer themselves."

Wilde nodded briskly. "An excellent deduction," Wilde said approvingly, "It tells us that the murderer took great pains to try covering their deed. Scent is, after all, a frequently overlooked clue, by police and criminals alike."

"There are the remnants of what I think to be bandages in the fireplace," I said, "Likely what was used to initially treat Cavallo, I should say. By a mammal his size, if the scale of the room is any indicator. The upholstery of the furniture may have been burned as well, to hide either bloodstains or a distinctive smell."

I paused, and then turned to look Wilde directly in the eye. "Tell me, then, what I have missed. You needn't pretend something has passed your eye unnoticed," I said, and I was rewarded by the slow smile that spread across his muzzle.

"The carpet bears a combination of bloodstains and stains from vanilla extract," Wilde said, "From the pattern upon the floor, I would say that the bottle of vanilla extract was upturned and poured out in a circle before the same was done with the bottles of Javole water and they were shattered. For bottles, however, I think it is what I could not find that is truly valuable, not what was upon the floor."

As Wilde paused, I turned my thoughts towards the bottles and realized what he meant. "There was no trace of a bottle which held corrosive sublimate," I said, and Wilde clapped his paws together.

"Which is very interesting, would you not say? Why would this bottle be excluded from this little festival of destruction that has made the floor quite the hazard?"

"Surely in the hopes that no one would realize Cavallo had been poisoned," I said, but Wilde shook his head.

"Possible, but I do not think so. If this room had been left in fine order, with nary an object out of place, I would find myself inclined to agree. However, it could not be more obvious that this room was the site of something that someone wished to hide. Even an unimaginative detective such as Lupuson would find this curious, and while some pains were taken to hide how Cavallo came to be dead in the snow, the police would doubtlessly be made aware of this room. I am sure, after all, that the staff of the hotel might find such wanton destruction of one of their rooms a crime even more egregious than the attempts on the life of a mule."

Wilde gave his last sentence something of a sardonic flair, and I brushed my ears back, lost in thought at his words. "As a cover up, it's both well and poorly done," I said at last, "An incompetent criminal would leave behind more evidence and a competent one far less."

"Which is why I would say that whoever did this is inexperienced, but clever," Wilde said, "And I suspect that they had good reason to take the corrosive sublimate with them."

I frowned, holding out one paw to indicate that Wilde should not continue as I tried to reach the conclusion myself. "The poison in the tea was supposed to kill Quixano," I said slowly, the idea coming to me as I spoke the words, "I think Cavallo was likely the one to add the poison to the tea, but even if he was un-involved in that attempt, he was surely central to the business with the rifle. That was a far cruder attempt, though, and Cavallo was certainly not supposed to be wounded in the process."

Wilde nodded, wordlessly rolling his paw to indicate I should continue. "Cavallo was always supposed to die, I think, but the means by which he actually did was improvised," I said, "Which means the murderer used what they had available. Corrosive sublimate is a poor poison with which to murder, for the traces are obvious, even to a poor doctor."

"You have not met the unfortunate creatures in the police's employ," Wilde said, a faint smile touching his lips as he interrupted, "But pray continue."

I paced the hallway in which we stood, the noise of my cane against the floor swallowed almost entirely by the plush carpeting. "If the corrosive sublimate had come from the hotel, it would be easy enough to hide it. That is a possibility, is it not?"

I had turned to face Wilde, who nodded. "Quite possible. It does not do to get overly attached to a single theory, I find."

"However, if the murderer happened to have had corrosive sublimate on them, they may have been afraid of it linking back to them in some fashion," I said, and in my eagerness I found it difficult to prevent myself from tripping over my own words, "Which would mean that they had it as a medicine."

"That is my current leading theory," Wilde said approvingly, "Now, tell me honestly, does it ruin my air of impossible intelligence when you reach the same conclusion yourself?"

I could not help but laugh at his words and the faux innocence with which he had delivered them. "Surely you are not suggesting that I am some witless rube to be easily impressed by a charlatan," I teased, and if anything Wilde's expression of innocence become even more comically intense.

"Slander, my dear doctor, slander," Wilde said, and then his expression sobered as he beckoned me over towards the stairs.

"We must still check on Inspector Lupuson and his officers, to see what they have learned from the guests. I would also, of course, dearly like to see the scene of the first attempt on Quixano's life carried out in this hotel. There's the matter of Quixano's inheritance as well, for it may be most illuminating to see how Lord Whinnypeg's estate was split. There is yet much for us to learn, Dr. Hopps."

I followed Wilde down the stairs. "Then I suppose it well that I have an excellent teacher," I said.

Although I could of course not see Wilde's face when his back was towards me, by the subtle movement of his ears and tail I thought he must have smiled.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Elevators, or lifts as they are known in much of the English-speaking world, were beginning to catch on towards the end of the 19th century, so one wouldn't be out of place in a luxury hotel in 1881 implied to have opened somewhat recently. A number of different methods were used for powering early operators, starting with steam power, followed by hydraulics and then electricity. Hydraulic elevators were actually pretty dominant in the UK, with the formation of the London Hydraulic Power Company in 1882 to build a hydraulic power grid. This hydraulic power grid is an interesting system that no longer exists, but was basically equivalent to an electrical power grid. However, instead of having a series of power stations and electrical wires, there were instead pump houses and miles of pipes for transporting water pressure throughout London. This hydraulic power was used for running not just elevators but also a huge variety of equipment, including cranes, mills, and even fire hydrants.

Of course, hydraulic power has a number of logistical difficulties that electricity does not (for example, the London hydraulic power grid needed to be heated in the winter to keep the system from icing up), and as electricity spread and became cheaper, the hydraulic grid shrunk and eventually closed for good in 1977.

Although Dr. Hopps chooses to take the stairs, the elevator she could have used would have been visibly different from a modern one. It would be quite possible for it to be a paternoster, a type of elevator in which rather than there being one elevator car that moves up and down there are a number of elevator cars (typically without doors) that move constantly around in a giant loop.

Paternosters are relatively rare now, being limited mostly to a small number of historic ones operating in Europe, but they were much more common in the 19th century. The name is derived from their resemblance to rosary beads, as "pater noster" are the first two words of the Lord's Prayer in Latin.

These are typically arranged so that on each floor where the paternoster operates there are two openings side by side, one that lets you enter cars on their way down and the other letting you enter cars on their way up. Paternosters have the advantage over typical elevators of not requiring any user input to summon the elevator or to operate it, as the cars are in constant motion, but they can also be more dangerous. More than a few people have died or been seriously injured by getting a limb caught beneath a descending or ascending car, falling into the shaft, or staying in a car going over the top of the system.

More modern-style elevators were also in operation in the 19th century, typically offering significantly larger cars with a greater weight capacity, but they required an elevator operator to be in the elevator to control it. It wasn't until about 1900 that the first automatic elevators became available, but the general public was initially reluctant to use them, and elevator operators remained quite common for decades afterwards.

Javole water is a pun on Javel water (also called _Eau de Javel_ ), an early bleach. It's actually potassium hypochlorite, and was first produced by passing chlorine gas through potash lye. It's named after the place of its discovery (Javel, France) and not its discoverer, Claude Louis Berthollet. He first produced the solution in 1789, and due to early production difficulties it was mostly supplanted by sodium hypochlorite, which is what is what household bleach is typically composed of. Both substances are good disinfectants and cleaners, and potassium hypochlorate is still used for disinfecting drinking water.

Dr. Hopps referring to the first floor after they've already climbed up from the ground floor might be a little confusing if you're familiar with American floor naming conventions, where the ground floor is counted as the first floor. In the UK, as well as many commonwealth countries (with the notable exception of most of Canada), the ground floor is effectively counted as the zeroth floor, with what Americans would call the second story being the first story.

The use of vanilla extract is a bit of a nod to _The Seven-Per-Cent Solution_ , which I consider one of the better Sherlock Holmes stories not written by Arthur Conan Doyle. In the story, Sherlock discusses the use of vanilla extract as a means of marking something for a hound to follow the scent; vanilla extract does have an extremely strong and distinct scent even to humans, let alone animals with a better sense of smell. Vanilla extract was first available in 1847, so although it was still pricey in 1881 it was available.

I do, incidentally, highly recommend _The Seven-Per-Cent Solution_ , which serves to resolve a few issues in the canon of Sherlock Holmes, notably what he was doing between 1891 (when he faked his own death) and 1894 (when he reappeared), an intriguing look at Moriarty, and how Sherlock beat his addiction to cocaine. It also references a few of the, shall we say, more poorly written Sherlock Holmes stories in the official canon as drivel libellously published in Watson's name by frauds. This is an explanation that I'm perfectly willing to accept for _The Creeping Man_ , a story that involves a man getting a treatment that is supposed to make him younger but instead gives him the abilities and instincts of a monkey. Seriously, that's the plot, which makes it easily the least scientific story about Sherlock Holmes that Doyle wrote.

 _The Seven-Per-Cent Solution_ also makes extensive use of frequently wryly amusing footnotes, treating the story as though it were a found work by Watson that someone else has consequently edited, so although the format of these asides is a bit different than my extensive author's notes, if you enjoy these you would probably enjoy those. As a final note on the subject, the author of _The Seven-Per-Cent Solution_ is Nicholas Meyer, also the director and (uncredited) writer of _Star Trek II: the Wrath of Khan_ , which is in my opinion the single best Star Trek movie.

The use of "spit and image" instead of "spitting image" may appear to be an eggcorn on my part, in which I'm using a phrase that sounds identical to the correct one (the term is self-referential, eggcorn being an eggcorn for acorn). If anything, however, the opposite is true. The word spit on its own was used to indicate that someone looked quite a bit like a family member, as though they could have been literally spat out. This usage was relatively common in the early 19th century, and was also used in _The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone,_ where the phrase "the living spit of him" in reference to an incredibly realistic looking replica of Sherlock Holmes is used, for example. As the 19th century progressed, the phrase "spit and image" became more common, and it is quite possible that this eventually changed into the modern "spitting image" as accents rendered the two phrases indistinguishable.

As always, thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought.


	9. Chapter 9

"You needn't hurry," Wilde said, speaking without turning his head around, "Lupuson will not have found anything of interest to him."

We were, at that point, nearly halfway down the stairs back to the ground level of the hotel, and until he spoke I had been doing my level best to take the stairs as quickly as I could. Although climbing stairs was, in my experience, the more physically taxing activity with my crippled leg, descending them in a controlled manner rather than simply tumbling head over scut was far more challenging for my balance. From how slowly Wilde was taking the stairs I did not have cause to doubt his prognostication, and I supposed I knew exactly why he was so pessimistic about the matter. Although Lupuson had not taken more than a cursory glance around the suite from which Cavallo had been thrown before the intense smell had made it unbearable to his sensitive nose, he had surely noted the room number. That neither the wolf nor one of the officers under his command had reported to Wilde that the matter was resolved and the mammal responsible had been arrested was certainly suggestive of the fact that their interviews with the hotel guests had been fruitless.

"Which is not to say that the guests know nothing of interest," I said, "Perhaps someone on the same floor saw or heard something."

"Perhaps," Wilde said, "But I would not rely on it. How loud would you say the storm was when it was at its full fury?"

I paused a moment to think the matter over. "Quite loud, but not overwhelmingly so. I could hear the approach of Cavallo towards Quixano's room even over the wind."

"Not all mammals hear quite as well as a rabbit," Wilde mused, and though all I could see of him was his back I knew from the way his arm moved that he was stroking his muzzle in thought, "But it is certainly suggestive. Would not a mammal being thrown from a window, particularly one who so clearly struggled as we know Cavallo to have done from the marks on the walls and the sill, not cry out?"

"Perhaps Cavallo was gagged," I offered, although I knew it to be a feeble suggestion.

After all, we had seen no gag in his mouth when we had examined his corpse, and I was not surprised when Wilde shook his head. "I do not think it likely. There were no ligature marks near his mouth or nose."

We continued down the stairs in silence a moment longer before Wilde asked suddenly, "Did you ever hear noise coming from the floors above?"

"My ears are not nearly _that_ sensitive," I protested, "I could hardly have heard Cavallo cry out with two storeys between us."

"I meant more generally than specifically," Wilde replied, "Could you hear other guests moving about on the floor above, or just on this one?"

He had reached the bottom of the stairs and turned around to face me, a droll expression across his face. I thought back on the previous night before I responded. "On this one alone," I said at last, "Or near enough. Certainly I could not discern any words."

Wilde simply nodded. "Then I expect that Lupuson will have found there are quite a few guests he cannot account for," he said, and he began to stroll away from the stairs.

I frowned as I caught up with him, matching his slow pace on the way towards the hotel's ballroom. It was the only part of the hotel, other than perhaps the restaurant, that was likely large enough to hold all the guests, and it could only be there that the police were conducting their interviews. "Whatever do you mean?" I asked, and Wilde simply shrugged.

"We shall see what Lupuson has to say first," he said, and would not speak another word on the topic.

The ballroom itself, once we had made our way to it, had to be the crown jewel of the hotel. It was enormous, with a ceiling so high overhead that were it not for the splendid chandelier that hung from the centre it would have certainly been quite invisible. The ceiling itself was a magnificent dome, all elaborately worked with rococo scrollwork and gilt decorations. The chandelier was an impressive thing, all of brass and crystal and with more tiers than a royal wedding cake. There must have been more than a hundred electric lights, all in cunningly-made enclosures of worked crystal that sent dazzling beams of lights streaming across the room, and I doubt even sunlight could have lit up the room so well. Indeed, there did not seem to be so much as a single shadow in the entire ballroom even though the day was still grey and overcast and the elaborate velvet curtains covering the enormous windows were half-closed.

Wilde, however, did not seem nearly as impressed as I was. He glanced around only briefly before saying to me, in a seemingly careless aside, "It rather clashes with the style of the rest of the hotel, does it not?"

"It is quite elaborate, though," I said, and he nodded briefly before walking towards where Lupuson stood.

The sounds of Wilde's claws and my nails clicking against the beautiful chequered marble floor was nearly lost to the voices of mammals, all overlapping and echoing in the fine room, and the shrill note of defiance coloured many of the voices aimed at poor Inspector Lupuson and his officers. There must have been nearly a hundred mammals of all different sorts, and a moose wearing a suit so finely made that a noble could have worn it with pride was glaring down at Lupuson as he gestured with one massive hoof that seemed to be nearly the size of a dinner platter. "Now see here," he was saying, in a voice so pompous that it could only be a gross affectation, "I shall engage my solicitor, you shall see if I don't, if you do not immediately— _immediately_ , I say—cease this senseless and tiresome line of enquiry. Who among us would stoop so low as to murder a mule, let alone a waiter?"

The moose gestured grandly, taking in the crowd of well-dressed mammals behind him, and I heard murmurs of agreement. "We have answered your every question," I heard a capybara call out from somewhere near one ragged edge of the crowd, and the murmur of voices in agreement grew quite louder.

"Now _you_ see," Lupuson said with genuine heat, and he unblinkingly stared up at the moose, "There is one mammal dead and one nearly so. It is my job to see to it that those wrongs are accounted for, and I will do it."

I will give credit where it is deserved; if Lupuson was at all uneasy about the crowd of mammals before him taking some violent action against him, he gave no indication that he saw this as a possibility. His gaze was unflinching and he stood firmly planted, staring up at the moose. "I am a reasonable mammal," he said, and he turned his head to look slowly around the room, "And I would hope that folks so fine as yourselves shall be reasonable too."

I thought I saw a few heads dip in shame at the inspector's words, and he continued on, his tone somewhat more gentle. "Now, you have answered my questions, and I am quite grateful for it. If you will only provide your names and addresses so that we may contact you if needed with Constable Wolford, Constable Timberlake shall see you to the door."

I saw that any support the moose had once had was completely lost to Lupuson's words, and the moose clearly recognized it as well. He scowled belligerently, his nostrils flaring, but he did not deign to speak again to Lupuson. He instead walked—or perhaps more accurately stomped—over to where Wolford stood and thrust his card upon the wolf, giving his address quite shortly. With that, a fairly orderly queue formed among the remaining mammals, and Wilde and I were able to approach Lupuson uncontested. When he spotted Wilde, an expression of profound relief crossed the wolf's face. "Did you find anything?" he demanded eagerly, "This lot has been entirely useless. Nobody heard or saw nothing, not when Quixano was poisoned and certainly not when Cavallo was murdered."

He waved vaguely in the direction of the queue slowly making its way past Wolford and then turned back to face Wilde, "And the ruddy hotel staff is just as bad. Two score mammals they can't account for, and near on the whole ruddy lot stallions! Explain that one, would you!"

"They were never here," I blurted suddenly, for in that moment I grasped what Wilde had alluded to on the stairs.

If no one had seen or heard anything related to Cavallo's death, it stood to reason that no one had been in a position to see or hear anything. If all the suites near the one which Cavallo had been thrown from were empty, it would neatly explain why that was the case as well as why there were suddenly so many mammals who could not be found. Lupuson simply looked at me rather dumbfounded, and Wilde spoke before the wolf could utter a word. "Quite so, Hopps," Wilde said with a nod before turning smoothly to Lupuson, "I would wager that these phantom stallions were booked in rooms around the suite you had me investigate?"

"Well, perhaps," Lupuson sputtered, "We haven't looked. But however did—"

"It was simplicity itself," Wilde interrupted, and there was a certain familiar smugness to his tone at how baffled the wolf appeared, "I'm quite sure you'll find it to be a simple yet cunning ruse. Even if the hotel staff can remember perfectly the appearances of forty different stallions, any one of them could be the true killer, and I would further my wager by saying that mammal took great pains to appear as unremarkable as possible."

"It would have cost a thousand pounds to reserve so many rooms!" Lupuson cried, "Whoever would go to such elaborate lengths to kill a ruddy waiter?"

"Not merely a waiter, inspector," Wilde replied, "A loose end that could under no circumstances be allowed to trace back to the mammal or mammals who wish Quixano dead. Besides, we still do not know the extent of Quixano's inheritance from his father. A thousand pounds may be as a halfpenny before such wealth."

Lupuson gave a grunt of acknowledgment. "It's all very well for you to say so," he said, "However am I to explain it to the chief inspector?"

"I am sure you shall think of something," Wilde said cheerfully, patting the wolf on the arm, "You know I shall continue my own inquiries."

Lupuson muttered something darkly obscene and then grimaced, appearing quite embarrassed by the slip of his tongue. "I do apologize," he said, and he seemed to direct his apology entirely to me, "But I would prefer a simple case any day over something like this."

He turned his attention to Wilde. "I simply cannot understand your fascination with the complex and the out of the way," Lupuson said, shaking his head.

Wilde shrugged. "I have been told, by many mammals, that I am simply too clever for my own good," he replied quite glibly, "What else should I do with my time?"

Lupuson chuckled. "If you wish to examine the hotel restaurant, you ought to do so before it re-opens," he said, "I give it half an hour before the guests simply batter the door down."

With that, Wilde and I set off for the restaurant. While we crossed the ballroom, however, my thoughts were occupied with Wilde's words. I wondered, not for the first time, why it was that the fox turned his significant gifts towards investigations. When I had first met him I might have accepted the explanation that he had alluded to with Lupuson, but I was no longer sure that I believed it was merely to challenge his great mind that Wilde had become the world's only consulting detective. My concentration upon this line of thought was so intensive that I completely missed the approach of Mr. White despite the elephant's completely unsubtle tread. "Excuse me? Dr. Hopps?" he said, and I gave a little start as I turned my attention to him.

"Mr. White," I said, and then hastily made an introduction, "This is Mr. Nicholas Wilde. He's a sort of detective. Wilde, Mr. White was so kind as to keep mammals out of the restaurant until the police arrived."

"Then thank you, Mr. White," Wilde said, "Your assistance could prove most helpful."

The elephant kicked at the floor, and I would swear that the impact shook both Wilde and me. "It was simple enough," he said, "Hardly anything, compared to what you did to save that poor mule."

"What did you see?" Wilde asked, turning his attention towards the elephant, "That is why you wished to speak to Dr. Hopps, is it not?"

"Why, yes," White said, "Only, I'm not sure if—well, the truth of the matter—I wouldn't wish to—"

He might have fumbled over his words further had I not interrupted. "Speak plainly, then," I urged, "Anything you remember may be useful, is that not so Wilde?"

"There is no telling which details may be important," Wilde agreed with a nod, and at his words White spoke again.

"It's only that the fellows who run this hotel didn't keep everyone in, I'm sure of it."

Wilde's ears noticeably pricked up at that and his gaze was intense as he focused upon the elephant. "How do you know this?"

White fumbled anxiously with his enormous paws. "There was a stallion I saw last night I didn't see this morning. And I would swear I heard the door to the hotel—the main door, that is—open after the storm had passed. Before the police arrived, you understand."

Wilde stroked at his muzzle thoughtfully. "But you could not see the main door from where you were in front of the restaurant," he said, and White nodded.

"I thought of checking, but I didn't dare leave. What if it was someone trying to draw me away from the restaurant?"

"Indeed," Wilde murmured, and then spoke more loudly, "What of this stallion, then? Could you describe him?"

Mr. White considered the matter for a moment. "He was a skinny dude," he said at last, and while I didn't understand quite what White meant the elephant elaborated, "All dressed up, like he was going to a show. You know, tails, a top hat, and the most elaborate horseshoes I've ever seen, all covered with engravings."

Wilde frowned. "And what did he look like?"

"Well, he was skinny, as I said, but most mammals look skinny to me," White said with a chuckle.

I supposed that, to an elephant, nearly any mammal would appear thin, but neither Wilde nor I spoke, allowing him to continue. "On the tall side for a horse. He had brown fur with a white blaze down his muzzle. And a blond mane. His eyes were brown, I think, but I wouldn't swear it."

"Where did you see him?" I asked, and White answered promptly.

"In the lobby," he said, "I got to the hotel around three or so, and I tried chatting him up while the receptionist was checking me in. Rather unfriendly sort of chap. Hardly said a word back to me and I gave it up. We're much friendlier in Amareca than you lot, but I know when mammals don't want to talk."

Wilde coughed, which I suspected might have been to cover a laugh at the gregarious elephant's words, and then asked, "Did you see where this stallion went?"

White shook his massive head. "I'm afraid the last I saw of him was in the lobby," he said.

"Well, I think your testimony shall be quite helpful," Wilde said, and White seemed to swell with pride.

"I'm glad to hear it," he said cheerfully, "You take care, Dr. Hopps. And you, Mr. Wilde. You're a fine fellow for a fox."

We set off for the restaurant again as White made his goodbyes, and once we were out of earshot Wilde turned to me. "You did not mention that your assistant was a wealthy bachelor," he said, "Do you suppose I should introduce him to dear Inspector Trunkaby?"

His tone was solemn, though there was a wicked twinkle in his eye, and I laughed. Imagining the pair of elephants as a couple seemed all but impossible; Trunkaby's grim nature was a poor match for White's endless cheer. "It might sour him rather than mellow her," I replied, and Wilde stroked his muzzle thoughtfully.

"It might still be worth the risk," he said, and it was in good spirits that we made it to the restaurant.

The officer watching the door in the absence of Mr. White stepped aside to allow us in, clearly knowing that Lupuson was leaning on Wilde's skills, and Wilde made a thorough examination of the room. I tried to see it as though Wilde did as I explained how things had been arranged and how events had transpired. He asked only the occasional question, allowing me to speak freely, and if he thought I was beginning to ramble on he did not interrupt my narrative.

Once I had exhausted my explanation and Wilde had searched every single table and chair in the room, we moved on to the kitchen. Although the restaurant itself was indeed still closed, the police had apparently given the chef permission to begin preparing breakfast, and the kitchen was as chaotic as any battlefield I have ever stood on. The kitchen was a long yet relatively narrow room, swelteringly hot from the ovens and stove tops that filled it, and the various cooks were all rushing to and fro, carrying pots and pans, slicing vegetables, and taking every other action necessary to prepare enough food for dozens of mammals accustomed to only the finest of dining. When the mammal who appeared to be the head chef, a pudgy deer without any of the delicate grace his species was known for, spotted us, he pointed at Wilde with a gleaming knife. "Out of the kitchen!" he barked, and I stepped forward.

"We're here to ask about Cavallo," I said, trying to make my tone as soothing as possible.

The deer frowned, but he wiped his hooves clean on a white rag and waddled out of the kitchen. "What of him, then?" he said, and his voice was just as gruff as when he had ordered us from his kitchen.

"There are some particulars I'd like to hear, Mr.—?" Wilde said.

"Evan Prongsly," he said, and I noted that he did not offer to shake, not even when Wilde introduced first himself and then me in turn.

"Do you keep yew in your kitchen?" Wilde asked, and Prongsly snorted.

"Certainly not," he said, shaking his head and with it his massive set of antlers, "Even if it was any good to eat—and you'd be mad to like anything that bitter—I'd never allow it. If something's poison to most mammals, it has no place in my kitchen, I'll swear by that. It'd be my job if I poisoned a guest, and I doubt the police would be very understanding if I said it wasn't poison to me."

"Did you know Cavallo well?" I asked, and Prongsly's response was instant.

"Of course not. He's a waiter, and he's been with the hotel a few years. If you want to know more about him, ask the other waiters," Prongsly said.

"Just one final question," Wilde said, rather more politely than Prongsly, "Have you prepared meals for Lawrence Quixano before?"

"How should I know?" Prongsly said, "The kitchen prepares the meals that get ordered. What happens after that is up to the wait staff."

"Of course," Wilde said, "Thank you for your time."

With that, we left Prongsly to his work. Wilde made a few more stops, asking questions of the waiters and other hotel employees, but to my ear he did not hear anything we had not already heard from Lupuson's summary. Considering both the lack of any new knowledge, and obvious exasperation with which the hotel employees treated his questions, by the time we reached the receptionist my hopes were not high. The receptionist was able to confirm that there had been a total of thirty-eight stallions who had checked into the hotel within the two previous days, but despite providing a copy of the relevant pages of the guestbook seemed unable to say anything new. Indeed, the receptionist would not say for certain that she recalled a stallion matching the description White had provided. When she said, rather apologetically, that there had been so many stallions checking in it was hard to pick any one of them out, Wilde had simply nodded. "Of course," he said, and after thanking the receptionist he turned to me.

"Come along, Hopps," he said, "We've learned all we can here."

I followed him out of the hotel and back into the chill of Tundra Town, which had been truly transformed by the snowfall. The only paths to the tramway station were crude and narrow, but still broad enough for both Wilde and myself. There were few carriages plying their routes, the snow drifts apparently too deep for most of the horses and other equines parlaying their trade, but it was a short enough walk.

As we passed buildings nearly buried in the snow, Wilde spoke suddenly. "It is remarkable, is it not?" he said, "Lupuson was not wrong to say that someone paid a fortune to book every room around the one from which Cavallo was thrown. Not only that, but mammals did in fact arrive to check into those rooms."

Wilde lapsed into silence, apparently deep in thought, and I offered a comment. "You were right, then, that the true murderer was taking pains to not stand out. With so many other stallions, what was one more?"

"And yet, it seems only one of them stayed," Wilde replied, "However, besides Mr. White, no one would positively state they saw his stallion. Cavallo's reputation as a loner is known to all the employees that worked with him, and that pattern was not disrupted even in these past few days by any mammal, and certainly not by a dandy of a stallion."

We trudged along in silence a moment longer before Wilde spoke again. "It is a pretty problem, is it not?" he said, and there was little more that I could do than nod in agreement.

Perhaps a member of the Whinnypeg family would perfectly match White's description, but I somehow knew, as Wilde apparently did, that it would not be nearly so simple. We continued onward to the tramway station, both absorbed in our own thoughts, and in short order had purchased our tickets and boarded a nearly empty tramway car. "Thank you, by the by," I said, turning to look at Wilde.

We had taken seats side by side in a tramway car quite identical to the one that I had taken to Tundra Town what felt as though had been months ago; I could all but feel my exhaustion catching up to me all at once and I had to stifle a yawn. "You're quite welcome," Wilde replied, and I saw a slight quizzical lift to one of his brows, "But whatever for?"

His tone was perfectly innocent, as was his face, and a slow smile spread across my own. He was a very clever mammal indeed, and quite well-practiced at hiding his feelings behind an expression of mild interest, but I thought I knew him well enough to occasionally peel back that veneer and see what he truly felt. "When we were speaking to Lupuson," I said, "You had no need for me to speak, for you had already deduced it all yourself. But you could not bear to see him speak so dismissively towards me, could you?"

I was beginning to feel quite drowsy, and in my tiredness I became perhaps a touch more familiar than I would have dared otherwise. When Wilde opened his mouth in what I knew would be a protest, I reached up an arm that felt suddenly as heavy as an anvil and touched a single finger to his lips, which were surprisingly warm and soft. There was no indication of the brutal fangs that hid behind them; I might as well have been touching the mouth of another bunny. "You needn't hide it," I said, "It is not only your brain that is great. It is also..."

I trailed off, unable to contain a sudden yawn. "It is also your heart."

I fancied then, and I still think now, that the put-upon expression Wilde's features resolved themselves into was entirely forged. How else could the thumping noise that could have only been his tail wagging against the cushion of the empty seat to his side be explained? I realized in that moment something I had always known but had not previously been able to articulate: beneath the aloofness that Wilde used to keep himself apart from the world, beneath the logic and the deductions he used to define that world and the jokes and the sarcasm he used as a shield, he felt—and cared—more deeply than perhaps any other mammal I have ever met, predator or prey. Wilde took my paw in his own much larger one and moved it gently away from his lips. "Ah," he said at last, "Well, you needn't insult me, Hopps."

His tone was light as ever, but even though my own eyelids were growing heavy and my vision was beginning to fade as sleep claimed its debt upon me I thought his eyes were perhaps a touch softer than I had ever seen them. "A conclusion I reach that another cannot, using the same facts, is a tenuous thing. Matters of the heart simply don't enter into the world of deductions at all," he said.

"Hmm," I murmured, "Is that so?"

My words must have become rather faint indeed, for Wilde leaned closer. "Besides," he said earnestly, "Lupuson would do well to exercise his imagination. He's a solid enough investigator, and I would never question his unrelenting zeal in pursuing justice, but he is just as unrelentingly dull. A bunny can be clever and brave and level-headed in a crisis. Her species simply does not enter into it, and if he can miss that, why, what else might he overlook?"

It was perhaps the closest Wilde was willing to come to admitting that my words had mattered to him, and I smiled again, for he truly was a singular mammal. "Indeed. And..." I said, stifling another yawn as I poked a gentle finger into Wilde's side, "A fox can be kind."

With that, my eyes finally closed entirely, and if Wilde made any further response I missed it entirely. It had been, after all, quite a long night for me, and in addition to not sleeping at all there were still the last traces of the poisoned tea circulating through my veins. When the gentle and nearly imperceptible rocking of the tramway was also taken into account I think it entirely forgivable that I fell asleep, my head resting against the warmth and closeness of my friend's arm.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Dr. Hopp's experience that it is easier to walk upstairs than it is to walk downstairs may seem counterintuitive, but it's frequently true for people with an injured leg. There are a few contributing factors, mostly related to the range of motion and fine muscle control in the injured leg, and also that when you're going downstairs you're trying to prevent yourself from simply falling down them.

The ballroom in the Chateau Talpen, as described, would have been somewhat old-fashioned for a 19th century luxury hotel, particularly a newly constructed one. Rococo styling, which is indeed largely associated with elaborate ornamentation, was most popular in the UK in the 18th century, and a building on the cutting edge of design would have likely used the mock Tudor style that came in vogue in the middle to late 19th century, which is typified by rustic-looking buildings inspired by medieval British architecture. As the rest of the hotel is inspired by chalets in design, Wilde is quite right that the ballroom doesn't match the rest of the hotel at all.

Basically any modern hotel will have a ballroom, if only so that they can make money by hosting conferences, conventions, and weddings, but in the 19th century they were most frequently used for actual ballroom dancing. From the middle of the 19th century onwards, waltzes were extremely popular. Amusingly, however, although by modern standards the waltz is an extremely sedate and chaste style of dance, in the early 19th century it was considered scandalously indecent because of how closely the dance partners were during the dance. By 1881, that taboo would be long since overcome, and it would be quite common for members of the upper class to throw elaborate parties complete with dancing to waltzes.

The use of electric lighting for the chandelier would be possible, but quite expensive. The very first commercial application of incandescent light bulbs was in the steamship _Columbia_ in 1880, which used Thomas Edison's design for carbon-filament bulbs. In 1881, lightbulbs were still, for the most part, a novelty, and saw extremely limited use. It'd make sense for a new hotel to have used lightbulbs to dramatic effect in a chandelier but use gas lamps throughout the rest of the building. Electric lights, even crude early incandescent bulbs, are significantly brighter than gas lamps, so what for us would be completely unremarkable (obviously a room with more than a hundred electric lights is going to be brightly lit) would be dazzling for someone living in 1881.

The comparison of the chandelier itself to a royal wedding cake is one that's fairly apt; the cake at the wedding of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert in 1840 weighed 300 pounds (136 kilograms) and was an elaborate monstrosity of a cake complete with little figurines of the couple dressed in ancient Greek costumes having their union overseen by a figure of Britannia. Royal wedding cakes, both then and now, tend to be pretty elaborate and expensive.

A solicitor, in British parlance, is what an American would call a lawyer. As for the moose threatening to get his solicitor involved, Dr. Hopps's usage of "gross" to describe his pompous manner of speaking means "obvious;" the more modern usage of the word to mean "disgusting" wasn't common in the 19th century, so she is noting only that he has taken on a very obviously affected posh accent.

The moose's card would be a calling card, not a business card, which were an essential piece of social etiquette in the 19th century. Any gentleman who considered himself a gentleman would carry cards with him, which would typically have only his name and title written on it, although sometimes the address of his club would also be listed. A home address would not be listed, hence why the moose has to say it. The proper use of calling cards was to leave one at someone's home, and then receive theirs back, which would be taken as a signal that they welcomed a visit.

Calling cards really aren't used in modern times anymore, which is one of many ways in which social customs have changed since the 19th century; telephones in particular made elaborate social customs around determining when it was appropriate to visit obsolete.

Lupuson uses ruddy as a minced oath in place of bloody; that stereotypically British intensifier was considered vulgar in the 19th century and not at all appropriate for use in polite conversation or even in print. There have been a couple instances in this story thus far when Dr. Hopps delicately indicates that the wolf has cursed too foully for her to reproduce in print exactly what he said; Lupuson clearly has to take efforts to check his tongue.

£1,000 in 1881 is equivalent to £115,000 today, which is about $151,560 or €129,995. Although Lupuson is likely overestimating the cost for emphasis, that isn't out of line for what a luxury hotel would charge for forty rooms today.

Although the word dude may seem far too modern for the 19th century, it's actually a matter of the word's definition changing significantly. From about the 1870s, it was American slang for a man who was a dandy, and the usage was typically contemptuous. It's also where the phrase "dude ranch" originated; a dude ranch is a ranch intended for tourists to experience what may or may not be a very authentic experience. Dude ranches originated in response to nostalgia for the vanishing American frontier, which was frequently considered through rose-tinted glasses, and wealthy tourists from the East coast gladly paid up. It wasn't until the 1960s that the word dude began to become more common as simply a slang term for a person without a negative connotation. As Mr. White is an Amarecan, his usage of the word suggests that however he made his wealth he thinks rather poorly of those who are overly conspicuous in their own display of money.

Evan Prongsly has a name that is derived from "prong," the term for the spikes at the end of a deer's antlers. As this story is set towards the end of December, he would still have his antlers, as described, but they'll likely fall off in about a month or so.

Deer are among the mammals that can eat yew without being poisoned by it, which partially explains his response when questioned about it.

As always, thanks for reading! If you're so inclined, I'd love to know what you thought.


	10. Chapter 10

I awoke with a start and a moment's disorientation before I recognized the familiar ceiling of the flat at 221B Barker Street I shared with Wilde. Someone, and it did not take a great deductive leap to determine that it had been Wilde, had placed me on the settee in the parlour with a warm and sturdily knitted throw tucked beneath my chin. I quickly sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I dug out my watch and checked the time, whereupon I discovered I had slept for nearly eight hours.

I felt an instant pang of regret for while I did feel greatly refreshed, with not so much as a trace of the headache or tremors that had accompanied my poisoning, I wondered at what progress Wilde had made that I had entirely missed. The fox himself must have heard me stir, for scarcely had I closed my watch and returned it to my pocket that he walked over, clapping his paws together briskly. "Ah, Hopps," he said cheerfully, "Welcome back to the land of the living. Are you feeling well?"

"Quite so," I said, and demonstrated the truth of my words by standing immediately, "What have I missed?"

"Well," said Wilde, "I have made a deduction of grave importance."

"O?" I said, quite eagerly, "What have you learned?"

Wilde did not answer immediately; he made a great production out of refilling his pipe with the coarse shag he favoured and it was only after he had taken in a deep lungful and blown a smoke ring that he turned his attention back to me and answered. "As it transpires, I am an excellent pillow," he said.

He said this with the same casual air that he might say anything related to a case, and I could not help but laugh. "Thank you for that," I said, "I do apologize if I was..."

I was not entirely sure how I meant to finish my sentence. Although Wilde was quite a bit larger and stronger than me, it still could not have been easy to get me back from the tramway station to our flat without waking me or attracting undue attention, for a fox carrying a sleeping bunny had to be a rare sight indeed. I had, I knew, doubtlessly inconvenienced him, to say nothing of how I had likely embarrassed him with my words immediately before I drifted off to sleep. I was therefore quite grateful when he simply waved my words off. "It was no matter," he said, "Although I did have reason to be glad that my Inverness cape is quite impermeable."

The insides of my ears coloured in embarrassment at having apparently drooled on him, but Wilde chuckled, a smile spreading slowly across his muzzle. "Think nothing of it," he said, speaking before I could offer any further apologies, "Although I will expect you to return the favour should I be the one to fall asleep, hmm?"

The mental image of myself attempting to carry a sleeping Wilde was so ludicrous I could not help but laugh; although he was slim very nearly to the point of gauntness, I doubted I would have been able to so much as lift him even before the injury to my leg. "I shall do my level best," I said with my best attempt at solemnity, and Wilde nodded gravely.

"Now, for the case itself, I have been here the entire time you slept, pursuing various lines of inquiry and reviewing the material I have. It was quite helpful, by the by, that in your telegram last night you provided both Quixano's and Whinnypeg's names, as I was able to begin putting forth requests immediately."

"What sort of requests?" I asked, but Wilde shook his head.

"There is quite a bit to review," he said, "But if you wish to accompany me on my first foray back into the city to begin a more direct line of questioning—and I am sure that you do—you ought first freshen up or else I doubt Whinnypeg's club will admit you. I've kept water on the fire should you wish a bath and set aside a plate from the excellent cold supper Mrs. Armadillo prepared."

I did not have to look down at myself to know that my appearance must have been something of a fright and at Wilde's mention of food my stomach did give a rumble. "And you shall catch me up as I eat and in the carriage?" I asked.

Wilde nodded, and I rushed through my ablutions as quickly as I was able until I thought myself presentable to polite company. Thanks to my companion's foresight I was able to enjoy a warm bath in my bed-room, but even if he had not warmed water ahead of time for me I doubt I would have hesitated before using water nearer to freezing. Indeed, I was so eager to learn what my friend knew that the bath water had scarcely chilled even once I had dried myself and changed into the fussy sort of dress that I despised but would be considered proper attire for attending a club.

Wilde, I had noted, had himself changed sometime before I had woken up, and I doubted anyone could have found fault with his freshly starched collar or impeccable suit. I could hardly allow myself to appear any worse, and so I forced myself to do up the seemingly endless series of buttons on the dress with veritably geometric precision. When I stepped out of my bed-room, Wilde was already sitting at the table to the side of the plate he had reserved for me, which I fell to quite eagerly, speaking not at all but listening intently. "I suppose I ought to begin with where I started last night," Wilde began, "Knowing the name Whinnypeg, I immediately consulted my copy of _Barke's Peerage_ , which was enough to outline the broad strokes of the family, however doubtful I am of their supposedly auspicious beginning. Still, whether the original Earl of Meadowlands was—if you'll pardon the phrase—a peerless warrior or simply a shrewd investor, the Whinnypeg line stretches back hundreds of years. While their nobility has never been in question, their fortune has, if I am reading between the lines as accurately as I think I am, waxed and waned nearly as frequently as the moon itself. Lord Lawrence Whinnypeg was, therefore, only the most recent scion of that most ancient family to pull them back from the precipice of bankruptcy, and the stories of his father's poor investments and fondness for gambling are so extreme as to make me think that if even so much as half of those stories are true Lawrence Whinnypeg must have been genius at business."

At this point in his recitation, Wilde paused to take another puff of his pipe before continuing. "Lawrence Whinnypeg, finding the banks in and about Zootopia rather reluctant to extend him or his family additional credit, took himself off to Amareca's frontier to build himself a fortune in the mining industry. In those days, you see, Lawrence Whinnypeg had no expectation of ever inheriting the family title, for he had an elder sister his father made no secret of favouring. She died unexpectedly of a fever while he was abroad, however, and Lawrence Whinnypeg hurried back to Zootopia, for his father was then also quite sickly and there were many affairs to be set in order as there were no other Whinnypeg heirs.

"Less than a year after his sister's death his father perished as well, and the new Lord Whinnypeg quickly found himself a young widow to make his wife and sired three children, becoming step-father to a fourth from his wife's first marriage. He lived out the rest of his life as a distinguished member of the nobility and an engaged Member of Parliament, and with his own death six months ago his eldest son inherited the title."

"There was, of course, no mention of an illegitimate son," Wilde added dryly, "And so having reached the end of what respectable publications could tell me, I turned towards my archives."

He gestured in the direction of his bed-room as he spoke, although I knew exactly what he meant. I had only disturbed the sanctity of Wilde's room once, and had been amazed at the sheer volume and variety of publications the fox hoarded. He had stacks of yellowing newspapers taller than he was, and I was not surprised to hear that he had consulted his collection of garbage papers and agony columns, both of which he read with a near-obsessive fervour and would occasionally remark about at breakfast. "What I found was rather unremarkable, I'm afraid. The late Lord Whinnypeg must have either spent the last few years of his life a dull mammal indeed or have held significant leverage over those gossip-hounds who live to throw back the curtain of respectability behind which certain nobles like to hide and reveal their ugly flaws."

In the time that I had known him, Wilde had never taken particular care to disguise his feelings towards the ranks of nobility. Although some would accuse him of being positively Jacœufin, I have always thought it more likely that to Wilde the distinction between aristocracy and commoners was entirely meaningless, and he felt there were no virtues a noble possessed simply as a matter of their rank. For Wilde, I believe that respect was never given as a matter of course, though he was quite able to abide by the rules of protocol when they served his purposes and he was most gracious to those he felt deserved it. Certainly I never knew him to speak ill of the queen and to impugn his patriotism or devotion to our great nation would be entirely unfounded.

"And which would you say was the more likely?" I asked, speaking at last.

I had come to the end of my prepared plate, a salad that although it had started somewhat to wilt since it had been made was still unquestionably delicious due to my hunger. "I would say that the former is the more likely, for while Lawrence Whinnypeg himself seems to have been an uninteresting topic gallons of ink must have been spilt describing in tedious detail the doings of his son, the useless Edward Whinnypeg, and articles in which he appears are far from universally positive," Wilde said.

I followed Wilde's point easily enough; surely if the late Lord Whinnypeg had some sort of leverage over the press he would not have allowed quite so many embarrassing rumours about his son to slip out. I possessed virtually none of Wilde's interest in reading the more tawdry parts of the daily papers but even with my short residence in the city I was quite aware of Edward Whinnypeg's gaffs, particularly the oft-repeated story of his escapade involving a public fountain, a large quantity of brandy, and several mares that I think far too vulgar to repeat here.

"So you think, then, that the Whinnypegs must be involved, now that we know someone spent hundreds of pounds setting up a murder attempt," I said, for to me it was the logical connection between what I knew and the research Wilde had pursued as I slept.

Wilde was quiet a moment before he replied. "I have never told you the story of the first case in which I worked with the police, have I?" Wilde said, his tone casual to the extreme.

"You have not," I said, and I am sure my curiosity was quite evident.

It was rare indeed for Wilde to speak much of his life from before we had met and even rarer for him to do more than vaguely allude to how he had come to work as a consulting detective, so I listened with particular interest as he told his tale. "Truth be told, it was not a case on which the police desired or sought out my help, for the solution was to them obvious. A Mr. Woolington had been stabbed to death in the street. A constable came across the scene and saw a blood-soaked wolf holding a knife over the corpse and made an immediate arrest of that wolf, a Mr. Wolfsjagd. It was, to the police, the _ne plus ultra_ in a case requiring no additional work. Mr. Wolfsjagd, as it transpired, had been in Mr. Woolington's employ until he was let go only the day before the murder occurred. He was found at the scene of the crime with the murder weapon in his paw and had an obvious motive. He proclaimed his innocence to anyone who would listen, saying he had come across the corpse and attempted to render aid, but who would believe it to be anything but the most transparent of lies?"

"You believed him," I said at last when Wilde did not immediately continue his story, the question apparently not rhetorical.

"I kept an open mind," Wilde replied, "It was his sister who believed him and sought out my help, quite insistent that her brother would never turn to murder. A brief discussion with Mr. Wolfsjagd himself and the constable who made the arrest was, in turn, all that I needed to learn that he was telling the truth. Both Mr. Woolington and Mr. Wolfsjagd were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time, and in relatively short order I found the true murderer and brought him to the police's attention."

I frowned as I mulled the story over. "However did you manage that?" I said at last.

"It was a simple matter of what was _not_ at the scene of the crime," Wilde said, "Mr. Woolington's pocket watch—a truly remarkable one made of gold, worth at least fifty pounds—was missing, as was his purse. Mr. Woolington, as I'm sure you can deduce, was the victim of a robbery gone awry. Mr. Wolfsjagd really did happen upon the scene after the murderer fled with his ill-gotten loot, and did attempt to provide aid to his former employer. I traced the murderer by first finding the pawnshop he sold the watch to for a pittance, and the rest I am sure needs no explanation."

"That's quite brilliant," I said, impressed as ever at my friend's deductive prowess, but Wilde merely shook his head as he unfolded himself out of his chair.

"It was really quite simple," he said, "But let it be a lesson in the dangers of making a deduction prematurely. There was, in the end, no motive for Woolington's death; he was simply the unfortunate victim of chance that a robber happened upon him. It was mere coincidence that Wolfsjagd came upon him first after the fatal stabbing, not a coldly premeditated act of murder. In the case before us now it may indeed be that one or more of the Whinnypegs plotted to murder Quixano. Then again, perhaps not. I cannot say."

I nodded slowly, and I understood Wilde's point perfectly. "So you intend to keep an open mind, then," I said, and Wilde nodded approvingly.

"Indeed," he said, "But now that you are properly dressed and fed, we ought to catch a cab to the current Lord Whinnypeg's club. Whether he was involved in the attempts on his half-brother's life or not, I think it will be quite educational."

With that, Wilde eased himself back into his Inverness cape, and then pulled my coat off its usual spot beside the door and offered it to me. I gratefully accepted and we left our flat to find a cab. The weather in Zootopia itself was much more hospitable than it had been atop Mount Collier, the temperature barely low enough to bring a rosy flush of blood to the ears of my companion and I. The wind was no more than the occasional zephyr and the twilight sky was clear and utterly devoid of snow. The fairy tale illusion of purity from freshly fallen snow had been utterly destroyed by countless feet and wheels churning up the snow that covered the ground into grey slush, but the streets were still clear enough to avoid getting muck on the hem of my dress.

Within moments of leaving the flat we had caught a hansom and had set off for an address I did not recognize—the Jade Dragon Club—although the horse pulling the hansom obviously did. "Now then," Wilde said cheerfully once we were seated and underway, "Let me think, what other matters of import did I not previously cover?"

He paused a moment, the tips of his claws idly drumming against the cushion inside the hansom, before he continued. "Going back to the Whinnypeg family, I suppose that it must be noted that, under the terms of their peerage, it is only the title of Earl of Meadowlands that continues to be passed down. While the family held various lesser titles at one time, those have all been lost to marriage and are now no closer than third cousin to the main Whinnypeg line."

"Are there other Whinnypeg lines, then?" I asked, "Perhaps one that sees some opportunity for advancement if Quixano dies?"

"That would depend upon the terms of the late Lord Whinnypeg's will," Wilde replied, "And though I have sent out for a facsimile, I have yet to put my paws upon it. Should I be able to trust _Barke's_ , though, I do not think it likely. The peerage granted to the original Earl of Meadowlands descends only through heirs of the body, and any dispute for the title could only be amongst the late Lord Whinnypeg's four children."

"Four?" I remarked, for while I was functioning under the assumption that Lawrence Quixano had told the truth and really was Lord Whinnypeg's son he had no conceivable claim to his father's title, as Quixano was himself illegitimate.

Wilde turned to look at me, a slight smile curving his lips. "As I said, Hopps, I am keeping an open mind. I have requested the marriage certificate for Lawrence Whinnypeg. It would be a fine thing indeed, should Quixano be the legitimate one and the three Whinnypegs illegitimate!"

"It would be a strong motive for murder," I said, "But surely it would have been an unspeakable scandal should the late Lord Whinnypeg have married a donkey."

Indeed, I could not imagine a world in which such a marriage would have been an unending source of gossip, no matter what influence the horse had held over publishers.

"Unspeakable may be the key word," Wilde replied quite dryly, "Nevertheless, I do not like to close off avenues of investigation until I am sure they terminate."

Wilde fell silent again as the hansom bumped and jostled its way across the rough streets of Zootopia, and I could not help but notice that we were entering a more moneyed section of the city than I was used to. I supposed that the club a lord considered his favourite would be fine indeed, but I pushed that thought aside as I turned back to Wilde. "What else, then, have you managed?" I asked.

"I do wish dearly to speak to Lawrence Quixano himself, but the reports from the hospital I have received—"

"Reports?" I interrupted, unable to contain myself, "Who at the hospital is providing you reports?"

"Why, Molly and her cohort of urchins, of course," Wilde replied, seeming mildly surprised at the question, "Although the police were kind enough to put a guard on poor Mr. Quixano, I should not like to trust his life to their competence, so I made suitable arrangements."

"A precaution I hope is not needed," I said, and Wilde nodded.

"As I was saying," he continued with a tone of mock severity, glancing at me sidelong in much the same manner that a professor would look at an unruly student, "The reports from the hospital I have received say that he has yet to wake. When he is ambulatory again, I think it would be wise to have him relocate to more secure lodgings."

Only once it was clear that Wilde was not about to continue did I speak again to ask, "And you have a location in mind, I suppose?"

"I do," Wilde replied, "One that may allow me to kill two birds with one stone, as it were, for I have other inquiries that may be answered at the Diognues Club."

Although I could make no claim as to being knowledgeable about Zootopia's many clubs—indeed, the very fact that I had never heard of the current Lord Whinnypeg's favourite was proof positive of that—the name of the Diognues Club brought with it not so much as a glimmer of recognition. I did not know if Wilde himself frequented clubs, but I was quite interested in the sort of club he considered to have potential practical use in the case. I was about to ask Wilde what it was that he hoped to find answers to at the Diognues Club, but before I had the opportunity the hansom suddenly stopped. "Here we are, then," the horse who had pulled our carriage called back over his shoulder, "The Jade Dragon Club."

I entirely forgot the question I intended to ask as I took in the appearance of the club, which was remarkable to the extreme. It was surrounded by a large empty lot that appeared to be a garden of some sort in the warmer months, and the building itself stood apart from its fellows in design as much as it did in physical distance. It was three storeys tall, each floor smaller than the floor below it, and each storey had its own elaborate pagoda roof. The front of the club, as well as a series of massive pillars that ran in a colonnade, was made of wood painted a vivid shade of red that stood out sharply from the white of the snow piled on the eaves and the dull black of the curved roof tiles. Wilde settled our fare with the horse and turned to me. "Come along, Dr. Hopps," he said, setting off for the gate in the low wall that surrounded the club's lot, "Let us see what Lord William Whinnypeg has to say."

I nodded and, taking up my cane, set after him.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

As briefly mentioned in "A Study in Gold," the landlady of the flat that Wilde and Hopps share is Mrs. Armadillo, casting the landlady from Judy's apartment in the film into the role of Mrs. Hudson from the Sherlock Holmes stories.

The gentlemen's club that Wilde says they can find the current Lord Whinnypeg at is a gentlemen's club in the original sense of the phrase; it is definitely not a "gentlemen's club" in the euphemistic sense that it is used in modern-day America to refer to a strip club. Gentlemen's clubs were, in the 19th century, extremely popular among the middle and upper class of society in the UK. Gentlemen's clubs were often quite elaborate, frequently having dining rooms, rooms for playing cards and other games, libraries, smoking rooms, bars, and even rooms for sleeping overnight. Membership in certain clubs was extremely exclusive, and to be barred from one's club would have a devastating effect on that person's social standing. It wasn't uncommon for men to spend as much time as they possibly could, when they weren't working, at their club, so by knowing Lord Whinnypeg's club Wilde has a way of gaining access to him that is potentially much easier than simply trying his residence.

Barke's Peerage is an awful pun on Burke's Peerage, a real publication that publishes genealogical information on members of the British nobility. Wilde is rightly skeptical of Barke's Peerage when it comes to the first noble member of the Whinnypeg family; during the 19th century the real Burke's Peerage was notoriously fanciful and inaccurate when it came to ancient members of nobility and had far from perfect accuracy even for more recent ones.

Since this story is set in 1881, Lawrence Whinnypeg's trip to Amareca to shore up his family's fortune would align pretty well with the real-world gold rush of 1849, which saw people coming to California from all over the world. Although Wilde alludes to the fortunes of the Whinnypeg family varying quite a bit over the centuries, declining fortunes were a real problem for many noble British families of the 19th century. It was for this reason that it started to become increasingly common for British peers to marry the daughters of wealthy American industrialists and businessmen, although it remained common for well-to-do peers who hadn't needed to marry into money to look down upon those who did.

When Hopps refers to garbage papers, she's speaking of what were, essentially, gossip columns. The public of the 19th century had an enormous hunger for gossip and rumors about public figures behaving in an unseemly way, and gossip columns were quite popular. Some used very general descriptions or aliases to get around directly identifying their subjects, but someone reasonably clever and knowledgeable would immediately get who was meant.

Agony columns, in turn, were a common name for classified ads in the 19th century, which were frequently used for much the same purposes as modern classified ads. People would post ads for missed connections as well as missing persons. Considering Wilde's occupation, it makes sense that he would have a keen interest in agony columns as the potential source of new and interesting cases.

Dr. Hopps did indeed go into Wilde's room once in "A Study in Gold;" Wilde had a huge volume of old newspapers and other bric-a-brac.

Jacœufin is a pun on Jacobin, incorporating the French word "œuf," which means "egg." Describing Wilde's political views as Jacobin, in the parlance of the 19th century, is something associated with the Jacobin Club of the French Revolution. Even after that revolution ended in 1799, the phrase stuck around to describe someone who was against monarchy and in favour of democracy. The Sherlock of Doyle's original stories frequently expressed a dim view of nobility, and even declined to be knighted as described in "The Three Garridebs." I thought it made sense for the Wilde of this story to hold similar views, considering the social structure his species puts him at.

The original Sherlock Holmes stories were not particularly high entertainment at the time they were written; they were intended for a broad audience and published in widely-read periodicals. As such, they offer an interesting look at what was and was no appropriate at the time in British society. In a previous chapter I remarked upon how the use of the word "bloody" as an intensifier, although common in speech for the common folk of the day, was considered inappropriate for print. The grisly details of violent murders were perfectly acceptable, though, but strong language and many things concerning relationships definitely weren't. The point I'm trying to get at is that, whatever it was that Edward Whinnypeg did, it could very well be the sort of thing that modern newspapers would report on without a second thought, but what was considered transgressive in the 19th century doesn't necessarily align to our societal norms.

In the story that Wilde tells, Wolfsjagd's name is somewhat ironic, as a wolfsjagd is a kind of wolf trap consisting of two pieces of metal joined together by a chain. One part, which is vaguely crescent shaped, is lodged between the branches of a tree, and the bottom part, which is hook shaped, is baited with a piece of meat. When a wolf tries swallowing the meat they also swallow the hook, which would immobilize and possibly kill them. I thought it fit, though, for a wolf who is a victim of circumstance.

The phrase "ne plus ultra" is Latin for "not more beyond" and means that something is a perfect or extreme example.

An heir of the body is an important concept in British rules of succession for hereditary titles, and functions as described here. In order to inherit a title, you must be the natural child of a previous holder of the title. Importantly, this means that an illegitimate child cannot inherit the title, hence Hopps's question about why Wilde names says that there are four possible mammals who might try for the title. It also means that, if a holder of the title dies without any legitimate heirs, the title dies with them.

Of course, not every title works this way and it all depends on the conditions set when it was granted. In some cases, the peerage was granted with language that it could pass to "heirs general" (that is, members of the family that are not direct-line descendants) if there were no longer any heirs of the body. As the elder Lord Whinnypeg's wife had a child from a previous marriage, that child would be ineligible to inherit the title as he has no blood relation to the Whinnypeg family no matter what the terms of the peerage.

In the UK, official civil records for marriages date to July 01, 1837, so Wilde should be able to get a copy of the marriage certificate for the late Lord Lawrence Whinnypeg.

The Diognues Club is a pun on Diogenes and gnu, and acts as a reference to the Diogenes Club from the original Sherlock Holmes stories. The Diogenes Club, as described by Sherlock, is a gentlemen's club for men too antisocial for normal clubs. I'll get into more background there once the characters actually visit the Diognues Club.

An interest in Asian culture wasn't too unusual for British gentlemen of the 19th century, and the Jade Dragon Club is obviously intended to invoke such an effect. Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean that British reproductions were particularly accurate, but I'll leave those notes for the next chapter.

As always, thanks for reading! If you're so inclined, I'd love to know what you thought.


	11. Chapter 11

In an amusingly out of place touch, considering the obvious care that had been taken to make the Jade Dragon Club appear enticingly exotic, the gate and the low brick wall surrounding the garden were no more unusual than any I had ever seen in Zootopia. The gate itself was a simple thing of wrought iron, worked into twisted bars topped incongruously with _fleur-de-lis_ ornaments half the size of my paw. As if in apology for the rather pedestrian trappings of the barrier between Zootopia and the club, the path through the snow-covered garden had an enormous archway straddling it at the half-way point; the two uprights looked to have been hewn from enormous trees and painted the same vermilion colour as the front of the club. Crossing the uprights were a blocky rectangular beam, painted a glossy black and inscribed with gilt symbols I could not read, and another black-painted beam that curved outwards and upwards at its edges.

The garden itself was littered with squat stone sculptures, their grotesque designs made all the more fantastical by the snow that covered them and blurred the features of the mammals they depicted. Otherwise, only gnarled and bare cherry trees were visible in the garden, any other plants and shrubbery lost entirely to the drifts of snow.

"Could I ask a favour, Hopps?" Wilde asked in a seemingly careless tone as we crossed under the strange arch, "Would you mind particularly presenting this to the mammal at the door? Presenting only, mind you; I would ask you not to give it to him."

As he spoke, he pulled a cream-coloured envelope of thick cardstock from an interior pocket and gave it over to me. Across the front, in the neat and spidery script I well-knew to be Wilde's own, were the words "Lord William Whinnypeg."

I accepted the envelope, but made no attempt to conceal my confusion as we continued up the path towards the club. "Present it to the mammal at the door?" I asked, echoing his words, "Are we not taking the servant's entrance?"

I had, quite naturally, assumed that Wilde and I would present ourselves at the servant's entrance, which I presumed to be around the side of the club, and would contrive to set up a meeting with Lord Whinnypeg elsewhere. I had not expected to attempt to enter the club and had only dressed up for the occasion out of the recognition that the servants would be more apt to carry a message if we looked respectable. It went without saying that neither Wilde nor I would be welcome in the club under normal circumstances; him for being a fox, a species that had never been welcome amongst the upper echelons of society, and myself for being a doe, as no respectable gentlemammal's club would admit a lady any more than a lady's club would admit a gentlemammal. "And whyever should we use the servant's entrance?" Wilde replied, and I did not think he was feigning the look of puzzlement that crossed his features, "Because propriety says so?"

"Well—" I began, but Wilde cut me off with an airy wave of one paw.

"Propriety is a tool like any other, Hopps," he said, "It has a time and a place, neither of which is now. Our message, you see, seems all the more important if we ignore the proper forms. A message presented by a bunny, and a female one at that, meant only for the eyes of an august patron of this fine club? A bunny, it should be noted, who is accompanied by a fox who stands silently, making no remark? I shall be quite disappointed if the doormammal does not find it powerfully queer!"

The depths of deviousness Wilde demonstrated never ceased to amaze me, and I could not help but shake my head as we climbed the steps up to the main door. "The fox shall stand silently, you say?" I said, casting a sceptical glance in his direction, for I knew of his flair for the dramatic.

"I am, I would dare say, among the best at standing silent and looking pretty," Wilde replied, the familiar twinkle of mirth visible in his eyes, "But I shall speak, when I judge the moment to have arrived. You may be surprised at the assumptions a mammal will make when you say nothing and allow them to draw their own conclusions."

I nodded, uttering a wordless murmur of understanding. Wilde planned to present himself as a _tableau vivant_ and allow meaning to be ascribed to him; perhaps the doormammal would think him a bodyguard or otherwise some strange boast of wealth and power on my part. I did think him quite right to say that we would make a considerable impression and cast any doubts entirely from mind as he pulled open the massive lacquered door and gestured for me to enter.

I fancied I saw a moment's amusement in his features as he saw the two stone figures on either side of the door; one appeared to be a rabbit pounding something in a mortar and the other was a fox with more than half-a-dozen tails, its features set into a sly expression of pleasure not dissimilar from Wilde's. Nearly instantly, however, Wilde composed himself into a stiff formality quite unlike his usual self, the alteration in how he carried his body seeming to entirely transform him without changing anything. I could not see him after that, for he remained a step behind me as I strode into the entrance to the club.

Inside, the club's appearance was quite as remarkable as it was from outside. The floors were made of long planks of polished wood that gleamed dully in the light of gas lamps that had been set inside spherical fixtures of milky glass cunningly worked to appear as though they had been formed from rigidly folded and glued strips of paper. Excepting the front door, which was quite conventional in its form, all the doors that I could see were sliding frames of wood with delicately translucent membranes of paper. Curious scrolls, bearing beautiful watercolour images of the ocean and blocky boats of a design I had never seen before, were liberally hung along the walls where there was space free of both doors and lamps.

The slightly pungent scent of some exotic incense filled the air, sticks of which were burning in a shallow copper basin set on a table so low that even a mammal so short as myself would have needed to sit on the floor to use it. Dominating the reception area was a statue that had likely either given the club its name or been commissioned in honour of it; it was a beautifully carved dragon made of jade perhaps five feet long. Although the shape of the dragon was queer indeed, more like a stubby-legged serpent sinuously wound around itself than what I would have imagined, the detailing was exquisite. Each and every one of the dragon's scales had been carved so realistically that it almost looked alive in the low lighting, and its minuscule teeth, all made of pearl, looked apt to bite. Even the glittering eyes, which seemed to me to be rubies the size of robin's eggs, served to give the massive beast a sense of grim purpose.

But I had not entered the club to appreciate their décor, and I pulled my eyes away from the dragon statue to look at the doormammal. He, for his part, was a horse dressed in a robe of black silk of the sort I believe is called a _kimona_ , with wide and billowing sleeves and an elaborately wound and knotted mass of cloth at his waist. Despite his garb, when he spoke it was in a cultured tone that indelibly marked him as a Zootopian. "I beg your pardon," he said, and if his voice was carefully neutral there was a definite undercurrent of surprise set across his features, "But the Jade Dragon Club is reserved exclusively for members."

He was, it seemed, too polite to voice the implied request for Wilde and me to leave, and before he had the opportunity I held the envelope before me. "I have an urgent message for Lord William Whinnypeg," I said, and a furrow immediately crossed the horse's brow.

I could see his eyes move from mine to shift over to where Wilde stood behind me, and a slight frown pulled down at his severe features. "Messages are to be brought through the servant's entrance," he said, rather stiffly, "It is around the side of the club."

He gestured in the proper direction, but I stood my ground. "This message is for the earl's eyes alone," I persisted, and I gazed unflinchingly up into the horse's eyes.

I could all but see the calculations running through the horse's mind. Wilde and I were both smartly dressed, but quite obviously not nobles. True to his word, Wilde had stood silently behind me, and I had not heard so much as a rustle of cloth coming from his direction to indicate that he had moved at all. Although I did not dare to look I imagined that Wilde's attention was fixed entirely upon the doormammal, those vividly green eyes of his all but burning holes through the horse. I doubted the horse considered either of us any particular threat, as he was taller than the both of us together and quite sturdily built, but I knew that I gave no sign of intimidation and I am sure the same was true of Wilde. The silence began to stretch out uncomfortably, a matter of seconds that felt more like minutes, and then at last it happened. The horse blinked.

"Remain here," he said, and while his tone was no less formal than before I somehow knew we had succeeded, "I shall bring Lord Whinnypeg."

The horse stalked off, his body quite rigid, and as he slid one of the doors open he called back, "Touch nothing."

It was, I suppose, his way of attempting to maintain the illusion of his control, but it sounded petty and feeble to my ears and likely to his own, for he turned his head away and left with not so much as another word. Once the horse was well and truly gone, I glanced over my shoulder to look at Wilde, whose face was set into a remarkably stern expression. When I had met his glance, his mask dropped long enough to tip me a wink, and then he resumed his stoic gaze focused rigidly ahead.

We waited perhaps five minutes and then the doormammal returned, a massive stallion in his wake. When Lord Whinnypeg caught sight of me, his expression of curious interest resolved itself into annoyance. "Who the devil are you?" he said, even as he pulled the envelope from my paws and slit it open with a penknife he pulled from a pocket.

I gave no answer, but I did not need to, for the instant Lord Whinnypeg held the piece of paper that had been in the envelope his expression changed as I had never before seen occur so quickly. His ears, which had flattened against his skull in annoyance, suddenly stood out from his head again, and his jaw visibly dropped, his expression suddenly slack with shock. His haughty bearing vanished, and the mighty hoof that held the message trembled. "We shall be in the library," he said, turning his head in a rather jerky and uncoordinated fashion to look at the doormammal.

His voice sounded dazed to my ear, as though every word had cost him an incalculable effort and come from far away.

"Lord Whinnypeg," the doormammal began, but he got no further.

"That was not a request," Lord Whinnypeg said, and while his voice did not sound quite so assured as when he had asked who I was there was the definite heat of anger in his words.

The doormammal, obviously sensing the earl's dangerous mood, said no more, backing up a step. Lord Whinnypeg led Wilde and I through a series of splendid hallways wordlessly, the movement of his limbs rigid and tense. Only once we had followed into a sumptuously finished library, with queer suits of armour sized for horses in the corners and oddly shaped swords hanging from the walls, and the door had been closed did the horse speak, pouring his fury upon me. "What do you mean by this?" he demanded, and he held the message before me, "Do you mean to blackmail me?"

The message that Wilde had written, almost certainly while I was asleep, was only two words long: "Lawrence Quixano."

"Tell the papers whatever you wish," Whinnypeg continued as he violently tore the message in twain and threw the halves to the polished wooden floor, "I shall present the facts before Parliament myself. The sins of my father shall not be visited upon me, do you hear?"

It was at that moment that Wilde chose to speak again. "I do," he said mildly, "And I have no intention of blackmailing you, Lord Whinnypeg. But now that we have established your familiarity with Lawrence Quixano, let us speak of your relation to him."

Lord Whinnypeg collapsed heavily into a nearby chair that was little more than a cushion on the floor, his confusion evident upon his face. Seeing him, I saw no reason to doubt that Lawrence Quixano was the illegitimate son of the same father, for the two mammals rather resembled each other. Lawrence Quixano, however, in comparison to his half-brother, looked like a crude copy of a work by a master sculptor. Where Quixano's mixed parentage had given him an unusual combination of a donkey's robust stockiness with a horse's grace, Whinnypeg had only the latter. His body was sleek and powerful, the elegantly simple yet rich suit he wore doing nothing to hide the strength and power in his limbs. Whinnypeg's head was well-formed, with a long and graceful muzzle and soulful brown eyes. His ears were better proportioned to his features than those of the mule, and while his mane was a black as inky it was quite a bit longer and worked into braids. They shared what seemed to me to be fur of precisely the same shade of sorrel, but Lord Whinnypeg's fur had a silky gleam that Quixano had lacked.

It seemed as though Lord Whinnypeg was not a match for White's description of the suspicious stallion he had seen, for even if it was allowed that a mammal so tall and strong as the earl might be considered slender by an elephant his fur seemed to be have no variation in hue and his mane was certainly not blond. Still, I did not allow my suspicion of him slacken, even as he spoke again. "Who are you?" he said at last, "And what is it you want?"

Wilde clapped his paws together briskly and took up another one of the low chairs. "I am Nicholas Wilde, consulting detective, and this is my companion, Dr. Judith Hopps."

Before Wilde could explain further, Lord Whinnypeg spoke. I had expected, considering the earl's earlier display of undisguised anger, that he would explode at the merest hint of an accusation against him, but I could not have been more wrong. Quite contrary to my expectations, Lord Whinnypeg's expression brightened. "You are a detective, then?" he asked eagerly, "And you, a fox?"

If Wilde was at all taken aback by the question he gave no sign of it, answering with his typical glibness. "For several years now, to answer your first question," he said, "And my entire life, for the second."

"This is wonderful!" the earl cried, "You are the very living proof of my theories!"

"I beg your pardon?" I interjected, as I had no earthly idea what the horse could possibly mean.

"Are you at all familiar with the science of phrenology?" Lord Whinnypeg asked as he eagerly leaned forward.

"Well enough to know that changing the shape of a mammal's head will have deleterious effects upon his character," Wilde replied dryly as I nodded, but Whinnypeg continued as though he had not been interrupted.

"It is quite simple, you see," Whinnypeg continued, "To take you, Mr. Wilde, as an example, the common school of thought is that the shape of a fox's skull, the subtle patterns and formations that we know to be indicative of low cunning and craftiness, doom even the best intentioned of foxes to a life of crime eventually. From my studies of _ch'i_ I have argued quite the opposite, that it merely takes a nobler goal that those inborn traits can be focused towards to completely eliminate any criminal urges."

The horse positively beamed at Wilde. "And here you sit before me, proof positive of having done so," he concluded happily.

I saw a flicker of something cross Wilde's face even as I nodded approvingly at Whinnypeg's words, feeling the beginnings of a glimmer of respect towards the noble horse. I was myself somewhat sceptical of phrenologists and more so of the Eastern mysticism he seemed to follow as well, but I completely agreed that we are not the slaves of our biology. It was all too common for mammals to dismiss predators for their natural characteristics, missing completely how those energies could be harnessed as I had seen occur for many wolves while I had served in the army. Indeed, I thought that even Inspector Lupuson, no matter how condescending he might be, was another recent example of a predator's ability to positively contribute to society. "I am quite happy to hear you think so kindly of me," Wilde replied, "However fascinating it might be to continue this line of conversation, I must ask that we turn our topic back to Lawrence Quixano."

Lord Whinnypeg's embarrassment at allowing his enthusiasm for what was clearly a topic near and dear to his heart to overcome his manners was obvious, but Wilde allowed the moment to pass without comment. "What about him, then?" Lord Whinnypeg asked, scratching at the back of his head with one hoof, "Is he quite all right?"

"For the moment, he still lives," Wilde replied, his attention focused solely on the horse, "He has recently survived two murder attempts Dr. Hopps was witness to, and claims to have survived two more alone."

"Murder?" Lord Whinnypeg said, clearly taken aback, "Surely you cannot think I would have any cause to murder him."

"And why not?" Wilde asked, but his tone was not accusatory; quite the contrary, he could have just as well have asked over tea if Lord Whinnypeg wanted a biscuit.

"I have hired him," Lord Whinnypeg said, and at this Wilde arched a brow.

I recalled suddenly that, while delirious, Quixano had said that someone had played him for a fool and made him a pawn in their game, and I wondered if he had meant Lord Whinnypeg. "Is that so?" Wilde replied, "Pray tell me your version of events, starting from the beginning."

Lord Whinnypeg nodded, and after a moment's pause began speaking. "I first met Quixano sometime after my father—" he began, but Wilde cut him off.

"From the very beginning, if you would please," Wilde said, "I would hear of your own youth, and of your father."

Lord Whinnypeg frowned. "What possible relevance could be had in such a telling?" he protested, "It is completely unimportant, for I did not know Quixano even existed for most of my life."

" _Es gibt nichts Unbedeutendes in der Welt. Es kommt nur auf die Anschauungsweise an,_ " Wilde replied, and Whinnypeg's head jerked upwards in amazement.

"You have read Goathe?" he asked, and Wilde merely nodded, rolling his paw for Whinnypeg to continue.

It took a moment for the horse to collect his thoughts, and as he did so I wondered at the side of himself Wilde had shown. His pronunciation had been, to my ears, faultless, and a familiarity with Goathe seemed quite out of line with what I knew of his interests. I wondered at Wilde's education, at how much of his knowledge he had taught himself, and at how much a teacher or tutor had drilled into his head. Whinnypeg soon continued, however, and I was quickly caught up by his tale, for he had a fine speaking voice and the subject was of undeniable interest to the case. "I would say that I grew up happily enough," Whinnypeg said, "My siblings and I—and here I include my step-brother Adam Hayes, for my mother had already had him at the time of her marriage to my father—were raised on the family estate in the Meadowlands. Adam was a sickly foal for most of my own youth, and so my mother's attention was mostly towards him."

Whinnypeg paused, clearly considering how to continue, and Wilde spoke. "Your father was a cold and distant mammal, was he not?" he asked, and Whinnypeg's eyes widened in clear surprise.

"He was," Whinnypeg said, nodding, "He spent most of his time here, in Zootopia, seeing to his business interests or his responsibilities in Parliament."

Wilde leaned forward, stroking at his muzzle. "And what were those business interests?" he asked.

"Mining, mostly," Lord Whinnypeg replied, "But he also owned mills and a textile factory, to say nothing of the farms in the Meadowlands."

"Of course," Wilde replied, "And were any of those mines in Amareca?" he asked.

"Certainly not," Lord Whinnypeg replied, "He severed all his ties to Amareca decades ago."

"Sometime around his marriage to your mother?" Wilde suggested, and Whinnypeg's amazement at my companion's seeming preternatural ability to know things was not limited to his expression.

"How could you possibly know this?" he demanded, and Wilde shrugged.

I recalled Wilde's summary of the elder Lord Whinnypeg's efforts to rebuild the family fortune and thought I followed the logic well enough. Clearly Wilde suspected something of particular interest had occurred in Amareca, but Wilde gave no real explanation. "It was the logical conclusion. Please, pray continue," my companion said.

"My brother Edward and sister Lisa, along with myself, were raised mostly by the servants in my father's employ," Whinnypeg said.

The horse shot a glance at Wilde, as if to question if he still had the fox's interest, but Wilde did not interrupt. "As the eldest, I spent the most time with my father, learning the businesses in preparation for running them and preparing for my own eventual ascension to the House of Lords. I might be so bold as to say that this closeness to our father, meagre though it was, made my siblings envious, and it was this that made us get on so poorly."

"Your siblings are not fond of you?" I interjected, and Lord Whinnypeg uttered a rich and rueful laugh.

"Certainly not! Perhaps it was merely to spite my father, or perhaps she would have held her beliefs otherwise, but my sister Lisa has ever been far more conservative politically than either my father or myself. My brother Edward, I am sorry to say, has never done anything to bring honour to the family, and has always resented my efforts to get him to shape up. Adam alone, perhaps, bears no animosity towards me, but it cannot have escaped his notice that my father cared not at all for him from the time he married my mother up until the very hour of his death."

My mind was immediately engulfed by my imaginings of what this twisted and unhappy family suggested, and I thought I saw the interest in Wilde's expression brighten as he considered the same. If Lord Whinnypeg was telling the truth, it was hard to imagine any of his siblings conspiring with him against their illegitimate brother, but might they not have joined themselves together? And if so, was their true target perhaps the favoured sibling? Might their hearts be so cold as to consider a mule's life worthless if it gave them the opportunity to drag Lord Whinnypeg down? "And what of the reverse?" Wilde asked, "How do you feel about your siblings?"

Lord Whinnypeg frowned at the question. "They are family," he said, as though it explained everything, "I am the head of the Whinnypeg line now, and it is my responsibility to see to them."

Wilde nodded briefly, and Lord Whinnypeg continued. "In my youth my father never spoke of having fathered any illegitimate children, nor would he speak of his time in Amareca. He certainly never mentioned Quixano, but I do recall how his mother, Roberta Quixano, left the estate's employ, for it was most unusual. The estate in the Meadowlands had dozens of servants, most of them quite loyal to the family. With few exceptions, and those mostly due to marriages or deaths, it was rare indeed for a servant to leave. As a matter of fact, I still employ nearly the same staff as my father did, and some of them served even his father before him. Roberta was a maid, and I would say Lisa's favourite, for she would play with her the sorts of silly games fillies love. It broke Lisa's heart, I think, when Roberta left, and though she demanded Roberta's return, nothing happened. We were told that Roberta was quite ill, but no one would give Lisa an address at which she could write her, telling her only that it was not proper to care so for a servant."

"And how old were you, when this happened?" Wilde asked keenly.

The ages of the mammals involved was, to me, the least interesting part of the tale, for I found myself suddenly suspicious of Lisa Whinnypeg. Had a hateful envy towards Lawrence Quixano developed in her heart, when she learned that her well-loved maid had been forced to leave due to what must have been her pregnancy with the mule?

"Ten," Whinnypeg answered promptly, "Adam would have been twelve, Edward nine, and Lisa six."

"As we continued to grow, Adam struck out on his own, knowing full well that he would inherit nothing, and established himself as an actor. I went to university and studied to be a barrister, so as to develop my understanding of the law, and took up a position in my father's businesses upon my graduation. My father purchased a commission for Edward, but he was never much of a soldier, preferring cards and mares to honest work."

Lord Whinnypeg frowned deeply. "He holds minor interests in several clubs, and claims to support himself thusly."

It did not take much of a detective to note the obvious distaste Lord Whinnypeg held toward his brother, but I did wonder at if it was truly possible for the lavish lifestyle Edward Whinnypeg was said to live to be supported in such a fashion. "Lisa studied to be a doctor, and it was at university that she met her fiancé. They have a practice together, but of course still live separately pending their nuptials."

"Of course," Wilde echoed, and I was not sure if there was a slight sardonic flair to his words or if it was merely a matter of my interpretation of them.

"That seems to bring us more or less to the present," Wilde said, "Now, how did you meet Lawrence Quixano?"

Lord Whinnypeg hesitated a moment before he continued. "My father was in robust health his entire life until he caught pneumonia. He was sick for nearly a fortnight, and he was little more than a wraith when he summoned me to his sickbed, so wasted away was he. He told me that he knew he was dying and confessed that he had fathered an illegitimate child with Roberta Quixano all those years ago, a son who had grown up to be a fine mammal. He told me he had altered his will to include Lawrence Quixano and..."

The earl trailed off, swallowing hard. "He told me I was living a wasted life, focused on politics and business without love."

Lord Whinnypeg favoured Wilde and me with a bitter smile. "To the end, there was simply no pleasing him," the horse said, and then plunged on with his narrative.

"When my father's will was read, there was of course quite the to-do in the family. I inherited the family estate in the Meadowlands (as it is under a fee tail), all of my father's business interests, and other sundries such that my share was approximately half the total. Lawrence Quixano inherited forty per-cent of the total in a trust, and Lisa and Edward five per-cent each. Adam, I think, was the only one unsurprised, as he had always assumed my father would leave him nothing, as was indeed the case."

I stole a glance towards Wilde. I knew he was keenly interested in obtaining a copy of the will, but if the current Lord Whinnypeg was telling the truth it was easy to see why the former Lord Whinnypeg's other heirs would wish Quixano dead. I could not imagine how much the Whinnypeg fortune was valued at, but it must have been worth millions of pounds. Perhaps a five per-cent share was more than a mammal could ever spend in a lifetime, but perhaps not. Then again, even if it were so, simple greed at having been cut off from an even larger share could be a powerful motivator. "Afterwards, I sought out Quixano. I could not help but think that my father bitterly regretted sending Roberta away, for I am not sure he ever truly loved my mother. I will never condone my father's affair, for I do believe marriage to be a sacred bond, but perhaps he would have never entered into that bond had society been more open to hybrids and the couplings that produce them."

Lord Whinnypeg drew a deep breath and seemed to straighten in his chair, speaking with obvious pride. "I therefore decided that my efforts at ensuring every mammal has the opportunities and tools they need to succeed cannot be limited merely to improving our schools and guaranteeing labourers fair wages. My efforts must start before a mammal is of working age, before even a mammal is ready for schooling. My efforts must start from before a mammal is even born, and I must speak against those reactionaries who wish to force through their so-called anti-miscegenation laws and condemn innocent mammals for their heritage!"

As he spoke, the fervour of true believe had entered Lord Whinnypeg's eyes, and he had actually risen from his chair, pacing the library and pounding his fist into his open palm to emphasize his last word. "Lawrence Quixano is to be my example," he explained, still standing, "A hybrid mammal I could present to Parliament."

I understood, then, why Lord Whinnypeg had so fiercely claimed that he would not bow to blackmail. Indeed, if he was intending to present Lawrence Quixano before the public and acknowledge their relation, there was little leverage to be had over him. Which, I realized with a frown, might be the entire point. Lord Whinnypeg had certainly given every indication that he believed in his proposed cause, but might it not be a cynically calculated political move, to get ahead of a potential scandal by exposing it himself? I was obviously not alone in my thoughts, for Wilde said, "There are some who might accuse you of acting only to acknowledge and move past your father's indiscretions on your own terms."

Lord Whinnypeg's expression hardened. "They may say and write what they will," he said, and Wilde nodded.

"How long have you and Lawrence Quixano been planning this presentation of yours?" Wilde asked.

"Quixano agreed to help two months ago, but we have only met on two or three occasions since. You _did_ say he is in good health, did you not?" Lord Whinnypeg said, his question betraying a sudden note of anxiety.

"For now," Wilde said, and then he stood and offered the earl his paw to shake.

"Thank you for your time to-day, Lord Whinnypeg," Wilde said, once the horse had released his grip, "Might I trouble you to inform your siblings that I should like to speak with them? It shall be either I and Dr. Hopps or the police, I'm afraid."

"Certainly," the earl agreed immediately, "Whoever is attempting to murder Quixano cannot be allowed to go free. I cannot think it to be any of my siblings, but if they must be questioned there is no avoiding it."

The earl's cooperation went a degree further, completely unprompted, as he provided Wilde with the addresses for each of his siblings as well as his sister's fiancé. It was as Wilde was tucking away these addresses into his pocket that he asked another question, with seeming casualness. "There is one more question that occurs to me," he said, "Did your father have a rifle?"

"A rifle?" Lord Whinnypeg repeated, a slight frown crossing his features, "Perhaps, but not that I can recall. I have never held a particular interest in firearms. Why do you ask?"

"Merely an object of curiosity from an attempt on your half-brother's life," Wilde said smoothly, "Now, would you be so kind as to see the good doctor and me out?"

The earl did so, the three of us walking in silence until he bid us farewell at the door under the openly curious gaze of the doormammal. It was an agony, waiting until we were outside the club and crossing once more the queer gateway that stood in the middle of the path to the road to turn to Wilde to speak. "What do you think?" I asked.

"We shall have quite a lot to discuss in the cab to the tramway station," Wilde replied, smiling slightly, "Assuming, of course, that you are up for another trip to Tundra Town so we may visit Quixano at hospital, considering how poorly your last trip up the mountain went."

I fixed Wilde with a droll glance. "Of course I shall accompany you, but I thought you never assumed," I replied, and was rewarded with a chuckle from the fox.

"A figure of speech," he said, his smile broadening slightly, "Your enthusiasm, it seems, is rather more a constant than a variable."

With that final remark, we walked in silence until we had reached the street and raised our arms to hail a cab. In short order we were in a hansom heading to the tramway station, and I would not have been anywhere else for even the entirety of the Whinnypeg fortune.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Although Dr. Hopps lacks the knowledge of Japanese culture to identify it, the Jade Dragon Club has a torii in front of the club on the path that leads from the road. It's one of those decorative touches that shows that the designers of the club were very clearly mimicking something that they didn't understand very well; torii are used as markers of the entrance to a sacred place, which a gentleman's club very clearly isn't.

The rabbit pounding away at a mortar is a reference to the Asian mythological figure of the moon rabbit, a bit of folklore inspired by interpreting the patterns visible on the moon as being a rabbit with a mortar. The myth is actually Chinese in origin, but spread to Japan and Korea.

The fox with several tails is a kitsune, the fox of Japanese folklore commonly depicted as a trickster.

The jade dragon statue appears unusual to Dr. Hopps because it is patterned after the Eastern image of a dragon rather than the Western one, and thus looks more like a snake with stubby little legs than a lizard with wings.

Servant's entrances were quite common in the 19th century for private residences and not unheard of for clubs, the idea being that the help should not be seen or use the same facilities as the guests. Some older British buildings that survive the time period still have these entrances, some of which have be repurposed. In this case, the servant's entrance for the club is around the corner of the building, but in many cases the servant's entrance was near the main door but at a literally lower level, being at the bottom of a short flight of stairs.

The phrase "tableau vivant" is French for "living picture," and is used to mean a scene created by motionless actors posed in costume with props. Tableaux vivants most probably originated in the tradition for Christian Masses to occasionally include a dramatic depiction of Biblical scenes by motionless actors, and in the Victorian era they were quite commonly put on by schools for Nativity scenes. In the days before cheap photography and photographic reproductions were common, tableaux vivants were a popular form of entertainment, as they allowed works of art to be reproduced onstage and weren't as demanding to put on as full theatrical performances. The Living Classics Pageant from "Arrested Development," in which George Senior depicts God and George Michael portrays Adam in a recreation of Michelangelo's "The Creation of Adam" is actually a pretty accurate version of how tableaux vivants were performed and enjoyed. Well, except for the jean shorts and the escape attempt.

As the art form evolved, tableaux vivants were also popular as a lowbrow form of entertainment; in both the UK and the US, censorship of theatres meant that actresses couldn't move onstage while partially or fully nude, and so tableaux vivants were sometimes used as a risqué means of getting around this censorship.

Gentleman's clubs were, and in many cases still are, for men only. London has several clubs dating back several centuries, and it occasionally becomes a newsworthy topic when one decides to change their rules to allow women to join. In this AU, I've made the general assumption that their society is more egalitarian than ours historically was, at least with respect to genders, and Hopps's mention of there being lady's clubs that won't admit males is my nod to this. On the flip side, they are very much concerned about species, and even if a club lacked a specific rule banning predators it's unlikely that they would be admitted as anything but the help.

"Kimona" is a now obsolete alternate spelling of "kimono" in English, so the good doctor didn't necessarily get it wrong. The spelling in English of Japanese words has undergone a fair amount of standardization over the years, and even as recently as the 1940s it wasn't unusual to see, for example, Tokyo spelled as Tokio. The theme of the Jade Dragon Club would have been pretty exotic for 1881, as that's only about twenty years or so after the end of Japanese isolationism as a result of gunboat diplomacy. Although the expansion of railways and steamships was making travel faster and cheaper during the late 19th century, it'd still be relatively rare for a Westerner to have visited Japan.

The interior of the club, therefore, is essentially Japan as viewed through a Western lens in terms of décor. It more or less applies various facets of Japanese building design, such as sliding doors with rice paper screen panels and rice paper lamps, and applies Western design philosophies.

Phrenology is the discredited pseudoscientific belief that by taking measurements of a person's skull it's possible to determine things about their character and personality. By the 19th century, although the precise mechanisms weren't well-understood, it was known that damage to the brain in certain areas had predictable effects. The French doctor Paul Broca, for example, noticed that lesions on the left frontal cortex of the brain were seen in autopsies of the brain of people who acquired aphasia (the inability to form or understand language) after a stroke. Arguably the most famous example of a personality change after brain damage, that of the American Phineas Gage (who survived a metal rod passing entirely through his head and destroying most of his left frontal lobe), was well-known even outside of medical circles by 1881. By 1881, many doctors didn't believe phrenology to be a usable tool, mostly because it was not really reproducible and many practitioners disagreed over how many areas of interest there were on the skull and what they were associated with. However, belief in phrenology was still relatively common among the general public at that point; Queen Victoria actually had the heads of her children read by a phrenologist.

Ch'i is an outdated spelling of qi, the vital energy force that in traditional Chinese culture (and in several other Asian cultures) is believed to run through all living things. Lord Whinnypeg's beliefs are consequently somewhat unusual, as Dr. Hopps notes.

"Es gibt nichts Unbedeutendes in der Welt. Es kommt nur auf die Anschauungsweise an," is a quote by the German writer, philosopher, and statesman Johann Wolfgang von Goethe from a conversation he had with the musician Johann Christian Lobe in 1820. The English translation is "There is nothing unimportant in the world. It all depends on how you look at it." Goathe is, naturally, an awful pun on Goethe and goat. That Wilde knows the quote, and more so in the original German, is certainly suggestive of some kind of education that covered philosophy. Lord Whinnypeg, at least, would certainly be expected to have a rigorous education in such.

William casually mentions that his father purchased a military commission for his brother Edward, which was indeed possible in the 19th century. Up until 1871, it was possible to simply buy a position as an officer in the British infantry or cavalry, up to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. These commissions were not cheap (in modern money, buying the rank of Lieutenant Colonel cost the equivalent of about £400,000 ($529,000 or €453,000), but it was also possible for a serving officer to increase their rank by paying out if they wished.

It would never fly in modern times to allow the purchase of commissions, but it did serve a valuable purpose. If you did purchase your rank, it served as a bond that would be paid back to you if you left the service by retirement, encouraging officers to behave appropriately lest they lose the money.

A fee tail is a concept in British common law, derived from the Latin phrase feodum talliatum meaning "cut short fee." In essence, it prevents a piece of property from being sold or divided; in the case of the Whinnypeg estate, it must always descend to the heir next in line upon the previous owner's death. The main purpose of fee tails was to ensure that a noble family would maintain their standing; if their property got divided among all the heirs, it would not take very many generations for it to be split into smaller and smaller pieces.

As always, thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!


	12. Chapter 12

"Do you suppose Lord Whinnypeg was telling us the truth?" I asked Wilde once the hansom had started off in the direction of the tramway station.

I looked over at where Wilde sat on my right as I asked the question, studying my companion as he considered the question. "It is possible to hide the truth without lying," he said at last, "Certainly, it is curious the topics he avoided and the implications he took great pains to give."

I frowned, feeling, I must confess, somewhat stupid as I occasionally did in Wilde's presence. As it had not seemed to me as though the earl had taken any particular care in avoiding topics, I asked my next question in the hopes of learning what had set off Wilde's chain of deduction. "However did you know that his father had been cold and distant?"

Wilde chuckled in reply. "Although I suppose Inspector Trunkaby would call it a parlour trick, that was simple indeed. I have never known a mammal who grew up genuinely happy to say that they grew up 'happily enough.' As Lord Whinnypeg stated quite directly that his mother cared more for his step-brother than for him or his siblings, it was no great leap to deduce that he did not know his father's affections."

I nodded my understanding, and then felt my ears rise of their own volition as I realized what Wilde must have. "His mother," I cried, "The topic he avoided was his mother."

"Precisely," Wilde said with an approving nod, "You see it now. His mother has been dead only ten years, and yet he made hardly any mention of her. Should she not have been a primary player in the aftermath of the elder Lord Whinnypeg's affair that resulted in the dismissal of the maid he dallied with?"

"But as you say, she has been dead ten years," I replied, "Long before Lord Whinnypeg claimed to have even learned of his illegitimate half-brother. Surely he may have just thought it irrelevant."

"Possibly," Wilde said, "It may have no relevance to the case. But no matter how mercurial Lord Whinnypeg's mood may have appeared, I have no doubt he was probing my responses as much as I was probing his. No matter what the general public may say about predators, I would say that it is politicians that are the most dangerous breed of mammal."

He smiled as he said this last part, and I offered him a smile of my own at his small joke, which quickly turned into a frown as I realized the gravity of Wilde's words. "Do you suppose he was trying to provoke a reaction, then, with that rot about phrenology?" I asked.

"Why, Dr. Hopps," Wilde replied, "I did not know you considered phrenology outside the scope of medical science."

He said this all quite casually, but I thought I had his complete interest when I replied. "I might agree with his conclusion, perhaps, that being a fox does not mean you must be a criminal," I said, "But I have not seen any phrenologist produce what I would consider proof positive of its efficacy."

I meant my words quite sincerely; as I have said I do not believe that we are slaves to our biology. Wilde was a particularly extraordinary fox, it is true, but he was a fox nonetheless, and if he could overcome the biological predilections of his species than surely any other fox could as well if only they desired to do so. Indeed, I could very well say the same for myself; if phrenologists had been right about rabbits I would even now be on my family's farm. "Then to answer your question, as an upstanding and honest fox," Wilde replied with a somewhat sardonic smile touching his lips, "I would say it to be quite possible. Note, too, how carefully he spoke of his siblings. It was a rather delicate—masterful, I would say—way of deflecting questions of his own involvement on Quixano's life. He allowed just enough of his dismay for his siblings to seep into his words to suggest that they might be guilty even as he said they could not commit murder, and yet did not overplay it and thus suggest he might have some vendetta against them."

"He did inherit half the estate of his father," I countered, "Even accounting for his position as the eldest, that must have been more than he could have reasonably hoped for with two full siblings and a step-brother."

"A valid point," Wilde conceded, "But did he not also rather slyly comment on their character being inferior to his own?"

Wilde was, in my opinion, quite correct on that point. He had suggested that his younger brother was a wastrel, that his younger sister held less enlightened views, and that his step-brother might have been bitter at being overlooked when it came time to split the Whinnypeg fortune. I was silent a moment as I considered the possibility, the sounds of the hansom creaking and rattling seeming to fade as I pondered the possibilities. "And what would you suppose happened in Amareca?" I asked at last, but to this Wilde simply shrugged.

"Something monumentally important in the life of the elder Lord Whinnypeg, of that I have no doubt," Wilde said, "Beyond that I could only speculate—"

"And you do not engage in speculation," I cut in.

Wilde simply nodded, his small smile appearing rather knowing. "There is some chain of events, then, that led to Lawrence Quixano's conception, and which may be of importance now," I mused, rolling the thought this way and that in my mind as I worked through the implications.

Wilde nodded again, and was silent a moment before speaking. "The question I now find of particular interest is the one of how Lord Whinnypeg induced Quixano to go along with his scheme. Certainly I would not say he was overly concerned with his half-brother's health. Although I gave him some small enticing details about the most recent murder attempts, note too that he did not ask for any clarification."

Lord Whinnypeg had asked after Lawrence Quixano's health, but Wilde was quite right that he seemed downright blasé about the specifics. "I wonder what Quixano will say," I said, trying to be mindful of Wilde's earlier admonition to keep an open mind.

"It shall be interesting indeed," Wilde replied, and then he pulled a folded-up newspaper from an interior pocket of his Inverness cape and flipped it open, disappearing behind it.

I left Wilde to his reading, and peered out the window of the cab, only half-paying attention to the throngs of other cabs and pedestrians choking the streets our cab so ably navigated. I was so absorbed in my own thoughts that it took me a moment to notice when we had arrived at the tramway station, but the shuffling of Wilde's paper as he folded it small again brought me back to the present and we quickly set out.

Most unfortunately, the tramway was quite a bit more crowded than it had been when I had ridden it up Mount Collier, and the car was packed so full of mammals that Wilde and I were stuck standing several feet apart, all of the seats already taken by the time we boarded. Still, despite the much greater load the tramway moved with no less speed, although the chatter of the mammals aboard and the wetly consumptive coughs of a miserable-looking llama made it a much louder ride. Indeed, I doubt Wilde and I could have conversed without shouting at one another, but the view more than made up for the other unpleasantness of the ride.

The choking haze that normally covered the city had cleared, however briefly, and to my awestruck eyes the city was spread out beneath me in the warm glow of the setting sun. It was like a model made by a master of the art, a sprawl of buildings and streets that reminded me of why I loved the city so despite not being a native. It was so vibrant, so full of life, that I do not think anything could compare. Even our tramway car was a microcosm of the city, more than a dozen different species—from a few rats huddled near the brazier at the centre of the cab likely for safety as much as for warmth to a bull who consumed nearly an entire corner by himself by sheer bulk alone—all living and traveling together.

Despite the view, I was still quite glad when the tramway car arrived at the station and we were able to disembark. It took me a moment to find Wilde in the crush of mammals, even his vibrantly red fur difficult to spot due to the many larger mammals who flowed hither and yon, making the station nearly as crowded as the car had been. Soon enough, however, we had pressed our way outside, Wilde leading with his seemingly unerring sense of direction towards Glacier Hospital. The building was indeed quite close to the Chateau Talpen, such that it was a walk of no more than half a mile from the station, and I understood at last why the streets of Tundra Town had been built so wide. Had the streets been as narrow as many of the much older streets in Zootopia proper, they would have been an impossibly choked mess like an artery clogged by an embolism.

Instead, the streets were merely crowded, with mammals proceeding on foot or in cabs as they went about their business, which for many mammals I supposed was to enjoy holidays. Indeed, many of the mammals we passed were impeccably dressed for the many night-time amusements that Tundra Town boasted, and if there was any part of Zootopia as focused on leisure I did not know of it. As it would have likely taken longer for a cab to make its way through the traffic than it would have for us to progress on foot I certainly did not mind walking, and anyway the cabs would almost certainly passed up us for more obviously well-heeled fares.

The traffic eased somewhat as we travelled further from the tramway station, and by the time we were within a block of Glacier Hospital it was almost non-existent. The hospital itself was a splendid building quite a bit newer than St. Assini's Teaching Hospital, where I would take up my position in the new year. Glacier Hospital, perhaps in an effort to be true to its name, had an exterior façade of polished white marble that really did give it a striking resemblance to an enormous glacier. It was four storeys tall, the top of the building terminating in crenellations that were rather castle-like. Which was, I supposed, not entirely inappropriate, for was a hospital not a place where health was protected? Glacier Hospital managed to look both imposing and inviting, and the light that streamed out of the large windows set into the building was of such an intensity that it could only be electric.

As we approached the magnificent sweeping staircase that made an elegant curve around the front of the building we passed a bronze statue of a dignified muskox at what must have been slightly more than life size, the sculptor having managed the difficult task of giving a mammal so large and so covered with long fur a kindly and welcoming air.

Wilde's attention, however, seemed entirely caught by the mammal who loitered near the statue, a tiger cub somewhat taller than Wilde was, dressed in cast-off and filthy bits of clothing that unmistakably marked him as one of Wilde's Barker Street Irregulars. I had only encountered the tiger two or three times before, and he acknowledged me but briefly, touching two fingers to the brim of his grimy hat before turning to Wilde. "Billy!" Wilde cried, "How goes your watch?"

The tiger, who could not have been more than eleven, spat at the ground. "Colder'n I'd like and too many toffs, that's the truth," he said, "Not so much as a peep, though."

"If Molly has an eye on the door, there wouldn't be one either way," Wilde observed dryly, and I supposed he was right; the ferret kit was completely incapable of speech.

Billy ploughed on, saying, "Your mule's on the third floor, Mr. Wilde. Room three four two."

"Excellent," Wilde replied, and while he pulled out his purse he made no motion to open it, saying instead, "And what of your other task?"

Billy fumbled through his filthy coat, at last pulling out an envelope of a whiteness that was shocking by contrast. Wilde opened it briefly, looking inside and thumbing through the contents, which I could not see. A frown briefly crossed Wilde's face, but he pocketed the envelope and dug out a pawful of shillings, which vanished from his paw into Billy's with the suddenness of a magic trick. "Much obliged, Mr. Wilde," Billy said, actually tipping his hat for the fox.

"Likewise," Wilde replied, and then he set off for the hospital's main entrance.

"It would seem poor Mr. Quixano has at last caught a break," Wilde said, turning to look down at me as we made our way up the stairs, "It must be rather unsettling to be the victim of so many murder attempts."

"The murderer must not dare to act while the police are present," I replied, and Wilde tilted his head from side to side as he considered my words.

"It is a curious mixture of boldness and timidity, is it not? Of careful planning and rash action? I must admit, I did not know whether another attempt would be dared at hospital," Wilde said, and the musing tone of his words was underscored by the slow and thoughtful motion of his tail back and forth.

Before I could utter a response, Wilde spoke again, quite quickly, as we opened the door and crossed the threshold. "Try to look purposeful," he hissed in a low tone, and taking his own advice he set an unerring course for the stairs.

I thought I understood what Wilde meant, for there is no greater way to look as though you do not belong than to appear lost or unsure. On Wilde's part, one would think he had spent his every day for the past year in the grand hospital, for he did not spare so much as a glance for the sumptuous furnishings. I must confess I found it difficult to do the same, for Glacier Hospital was truly lovely in a way that no other hospital I have ever set foot in before had been. The gleaming white marble of the exterior was echoed in the interior, and the atrium had a great vaulted skylight of iron and glass as intricately worked as the one that stood above the Rain Forest District if not nearly as large.

Arc lamps set into the ceiling utterly banished shadows and I could see Wilde squinting in discomfort at their brightness as his eyes adjusted to the dazzling light. Under such harsh illumination it would not have taken much for the building to appear filthy, but that it still appeared spotlessly clean to my eyes said quite a bit about how seriously the hospital took cleanliness.

There were not many mammals in the lobby, but none of them saw fit to disturb Wilde and me as we climbed the stairs to the third floor. A series of placards on the walls helpfully gave instructions as to the locations of each room, but even without such guidance I have no doubt we would have known the room that Quixano was staying in. Outside it, in a chair that she must have claimed from somewhere else as it was the only one in the hall, sat Constable Timberlake, looking very bored indeed. Standing next to her, and seemingly taking her guard duty quite a bit more seriously, was Molly, her face set into a grim expression that brightened considerably when she caught sight of Wilde and I. Constable Timberlake very nearly knocked her chair over, she stood so suddenly, and I think she about snapped to attention. "Mr. Wilde," the wolf said, rather respectfully, "Dr. Hopps."

"Constable," Wilde replied, nodding his head in her direction.

In the same tone, he added, "Molly," and nodded to the ferret.

The ferret cut him a curtsy, but I doubt the wolf noticed. "I understand your position, Mr. Wilde, and I know you have done good work for the police before," Timberlake began awkwardly, "But you cannot see Mr. Quixano."

"That is disappointing to hear," Wilde replied, "Whyever not?"

The wolf hesitated a moment. "Well," she began, "Inspector Lupuson... That is... You see..."

She had clearly not anticipated being asked to defend herself, and Wilde ruthlessly pushed his advantage. "Surely Mr. Quixano is a patient, and not a prisoner," Wilde said, "And is not a patient entitled to guests?"

Timberlake hesitated a moment longer, and Wilde continued in a gentler tone. "Why do you not ask him yourself if he wishes to see me?" Wilde said, and Timberlake seemed to latch onto his words.

"Of— Of course," she said, and she entered the room, carefully positioning her body so that we could not see anything and closing the door fully after herself.

Although the hospital had been well-built, with thick walls, I had no trouble hearing Timberlake's halting question to Quixano or the mule's irritable reply. Moments later, the wolf opened the door. "He says he'll see you," the wolf said in a rather diplomatic interpretation of the mule's words, and her relief at having thus solved her dilemma was obvious.

"Molly and I shall continue watching the door, isn't that right?" she added, turning to look at the ferret.

Molly nodded seriously, her expression not changing even as Wilde slipped a few coins into her paw as we moved past her. "I am sure Quixano will have nothing to fear, with the two of you keeping watch," Wilde said, and the seriousness of his tone was belied only by a slight smile on his lips.

Quixano's hospital room was quite as impressive as the rest of the hospital. He had the entire room to himself, and though the furnishings were somewhat spartan, limited to a bed, a low nightstand, and a table that had only a single chair (and that the twin of the one Timberlake had commandeered), they were all well-made and clean. Indeed, the room was lit by the same brilliant arc lamps as the rest of the hospital, and there was a slightly antiseptic bite to the air that spoke of regular cleaning. "Mr. Quixano," Wilde began, "I am Nicholas Wilde. I am quite glad to see you awake and meet you at last. How do you feel?"

"Terrible," the mule replied briefly, and I did not think he was exaggerating at all.

He was in the bed and looked rather feeble, as though it had cost him a great effort to speak. I glanced at the record that had been affixed to the end of the bed, trying to decipher the scrawl of whatever physician had started his course of treatment, and was gratified to see that another doctor had concluded that Quixano would live. The mule sat up with a great grunt of effort and fixed his eyes on Wilde. "So you're Wilde, then," he said, and then he turned to look at me.

"Dr. Hopps," he said, "I hear you saved my life. Thank you."

"You are quite welcome," I said, but the mule had already turned his attention back to Wilde.

"What will it take you to find the mammal trying to kill me?"

"Two things," Wilde replied, "Time and information."

Quixano snorted, but the sound came out quite feebly. "What about money?" he asked, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"You _did_ say in your telegram that you could pay me whatever I asked," Wilde replied, apparently not put off at all by the mule's attitude, "Discussing payment did not seem necessary. My rates are quite reasonable, however."

Quixano, I think, was somewhat suspicious of Wilde not demanding a ludicrous sum, and the mule scowled. "Fine, then, I'll pay your rate," he said, "Now what do you need from me?"

"Dr. Hopps tells me that you believe someone attempted to murder you twice before the two attempts at the Chateau Talpen. Describe the attempts for me, please."

Quixano scratched at his muzzle. "First one was about two weeks ago. A brick fell off a building, nearly took my head off."

"Ah," Wilde said, "And what makes you convinced it was a murder attempt?"

"The fact that the same thing happened four days later," Quixano all but spat.

I recalled that Quixano had rambled on about bricks in his delirium, and I supposed that I had my answer as to what he had meant.

"That is certainly suggestive," Wilde agreed, "Where did these attempts occur?"

"Near my shop," Quixano replied, "I was walking past a nail factory."

"On both occasions?" Wilde asked, "What time of day?"

"Yes, both," Quixano said, "Around six in the evening each time. I used to take the same route every day until that second brick fell."

Wilde nodded, but he appeared distracted and lost in thought and it was a moment before he spoke again. "Tell me, if you would, about what happened when you went to the deceased Lord Whinnypeg to beg for help for your mother."

Quixano took a moment to collect his thoughts, and when he spoke his voice was as rough as ever. "I went to that big estate of his in the Meadowlands. I told the prissy little servant to let me in or I'd tell the whole world I was Whinnypeg's son, and that did it. Old Lord Whinnypeg wasn't happy to see me, I can tell you that. He said it wasn't his business what happened to my mother, so I let him have it. I told him he was selfish and cruel and if he had any honour he ought to be ashamed of himself. I told him I'd do anything for my mother, that I'd go to the papers, but he said no one would believe me. He wouldn't budge, not him. So I left."

Although Quixano told it all so simply, I could not help but imagine the raw emotion that must have been involved between the mule begging for help and the proud earl refusing to do anything. "But two days later he sent a cheque, not that it made a difference."

The bitterness in Quixano's voice was mixed with almost unbearably raw pain, and I did not have to ask to know that his mother had not survived the surgery that had been her only chance. "I am very sorry for your loss," Wilde said, and there was unmistakably genuine empathy in his voice.

His words were quiet, his expression solemn, and Quixano must have seen it for his own expression softened for the first time. "It was hard," Quixano said gruffly, "But I put Lord Whinnypeg out of my thoughts until he died. Some fancy barrister came by, saying I had ten million pounds in a trust. I don't rightly understand it, myself, but I'd bet anything it's why those children of Whinnypeg are trying to kill me."

I had known that the Whinnypeg fortune was vast, but I had not expected Quixano's share to be quite so large. The mule appeared almost embarrassed at naming the sum, but Wilde showed no sign of the amazement I was sure had been visible on my own face. "Does this fancy barrister run the trust?" Wilde asked, "I should like the name."

"I think so," Quixano replied, "Her name is Agnes Areion."

Wilde nodded, obviously filing the name away for further reference. "And when did you first encounter the current Lord Whinnypeg, William?"

"A day or two after Areion came to see me," Quixano replied, frowning as he called up the memory, "Didn't trust him, not after meeting our father. He said he thought I could make a difference for other hybrids."

Quixano snorted weakly again, the expression of contempt apparently as strong as he could manage. "More like he wanted to make himself look good, but he said he'd pay for everything. Said there was no reason I couldn't stand before Parliament and look every bit as noble as all the rest. So I agreed. What does it matter if it helps him if it can help other mules, eh?"

I thought I understood, as Quixano spoke, why he had attempted to dress himself so finely when we had first met. Although I doubted that he would admit it, I thought it likely that he had been afraid of appearing like a fool and had been trying to appear as proper as possible. I thought I could even hear it in his voice as the coarseness he had grown up using struggled against his attempts at sounding more refined. "I see," Wilde replied, "And how often did the two of you meet?"

Quixano took a long moment before he replied, and I thought it was likely that it was as much a matter of him marshalling his strength as it was him searching his memories. His voice was not nearly as robust as it had been before his poisoning, each word spoken with an undercurrent of heavy tiredness, and he obviously found the interview exhausting. Still, he did eventually answer. "Twice a week or so, while he was laying out the idea. After I agreed about a month and a half ago, it couldn't have been more than three times."

Quixano frowned. "I think he was the one who tried killing me in the hotel. He planned it, anyway," he said.

Wilde nodded. "You told him about the attempts on your life with the bricks, didn't you?" Wilde asked, "And he recommended the hotel."

A brief look of astonishment crossed the mule's features, and to my great surprise he laughed, weakly at first and then with growing strength until it sounded almost normal. "You really are clever," Quixano muttered, "Yes, that's right."

The mule yawned broadly as he slumped down out of his seated position, for the effort of laughing seemed to have drained his final reserves of energy. "Thank you, Mr. Quixano," Wilde said, "I understand if you are somewhat sceptical of what mammals recommend to you as a place of safety, but I would say that the Diognues Club is the safest place in the city if you can bear their peculiarities."

A card bearing the name and address of the club seemed to simply appear in Wilde's paw in an impressive feat of prestidigitation, and he tucked it face down under Quixano's pillow. "One of my... Irregulars," Wilde said, casting a side-long glance in my direction as he spoke the last word, "Would be quite happy to take you there, once you are ready to leave the hospital."

Quixano nodded wearily. "Thank you," he said, and then yawned again, "I apologize if I have been difficult. Most mammals..."

He trailed off awkwardly, not seeming to know how to end his sentence, but Wilde nodded in understanding. "Most mammals look at you and make assumptions," he said quietly, "I understand."

Quixano nodded again, his head barely moving, and Wilde turned to me. "We ought to let him rest," he said, his voice little more than a whisper, and I nodded.

* * *

Wilde had been quiet from the moment we left the hospital room, speaking only briefly with Timberlake and Molly on the way out. He had obviously been deep in thought, and when he had asked if my medical opinion aligned with that of the physician who had treated the mule after me it had been with such a distracted air that I was not sure he had really heard my answer.

Although I desperately wanted to question him, and in particular hear what he made of the new information we had learned, I left him to his thoughts and focused on my own. Lord Whinnypeg had indeed not told the whole truth, and I could not help but wonder why.

"Tell me, Hopps," Wilde asked me suddenly as we set forth from Glacier Hospital, "Do you care for comic operettas?"

I could only turn and stare at my companion as though he had gone half-mad. It was a _non-sequitur_ of the highest degree, for he had posed this question with absolutely no provocation after we had been walking in silence for nearly a block. "I have never attended one," I managed at last, "Why do you ask?"

Wilde pulled the envelope the tiger cub had given him from his pocket. "Billy, the enterprising extortionist that he is, purchased two tickets instead of one, doubtlessly assuming that you would wish to accompany me. I could, of course, attempt to re-sell the spare ticket myself, but I am afraid there is very little time left before the show begins. Not that I mean to pressure you, for—"

"I would love to accompany you," I said, cutting Wilde off before he could equivocate any further.

I was somewhat surprised that the tiger cub had shown that sort of initiative, for while his feeling towards me had softened somewhat since our first meeting he still seemed rather suspicious of me and my presence in Wilde's life. Still, I supposed that Wilde was correct that it must have been merely an effort on the urchin's part to squeeze a few additional coins out of Wilde, any dislike edged out by greed. I knew, too, that no matter what Wilde might say, his heart was not so hard as to force the cub to swallow the cost of the unwanted ticket, and it really would be quite a shame to allow it to go to waste. I thought I knew enough of Wilde's mind to know that he would not frivolously attend the theatre for no reason while on a case, and the obvious conclusion struck me. "By any chance does this operetta feature a performance by Adam Hayes?"

Wilde nodded briskly, seeming rather more pleased by my bit of deduction than I thought was warranted. "It does indeed, and one I am led to believe is a significant role," he said, "He plays the part of the Major-General."

I could not stop myself from grasping Wilde's arm as I realized what he meant. "Do you mean to say that it is a production of _Pirates_?" I asked eagerly, for although I had arrived in Zootopia too late for the original run I had read the reviews and seen the advertisements for the traveling version.

"It is," Wilde said with a chuckle as he disentangled his arm from my own, "My, what enthusiasm! Farm life must be dull indeed."

I heard the note of good-natured teasing in his voice and looked up at him. "Perhaps you ought to try it yourself," I countered, "Surely such a clever fox as yourself would be a peerless farmer."

"There is too much of the city in me," Wilde said, smiling, "You ought to take care yourself, or you too will never be at home anywhere else."

"I think it already too late for me," I replied, and Wilde's eyes filled with an expression of mock dismay.

"Alas," he said, rather dramatically, "Then I suppose I have no choice but to show you the sights."

"I suppose not," I said, and we continued walking.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

The llama having a cough that Dr. Hopps suggests is consumptive means that it sounds like he has tuberculosis, which was commonly called consumption in the 19th century due to how sufferers tended to waste away. Before the development of antibiotics tuberculosis had no really effective treatments, but it wasn't always fatal. Most people who are infected are asymptomatic, and even in people who do show symptoms they can cycle through periods of relative health and periods of worsening illness. However, the damage that tuberculosis does to the lungs is permanent, and so sufferers who receive no antibiotic treatment have their lung capacity slowly decrease as their lungs become composed of more and more scar tissue.

The description of Glacier Hospital is as true as I could make it to real world 19th century hospitals. Hospitals at the time did not have nearly the same tools available to them as modern day hospitals do; X-ray imagining, for example, was first used clinically in 1896, 15 years after this story is set. However, the 19th century was a time of exciting developments in medicine, with anaesthetics and antiseptics making surgery less risky and easier to perform. Therefore, a large, modern building with at least some private rooms in very much in the line of the leading edge of medicine.

Muskox are native to the arctic, so I thought it made sense to imply that the mammal who likely either funded or founded the hospital was a muskox. As Dr. Hopps notes, they do have quite shaggy fur, which would be something of a challenge to depict in bronze.

Billy the tiger showed up briefly in "A Study in Gold," although he wasn't referenced by name there. In chapter 15, he's among the urchins that Molly recruits to help find Wilde, and he refers to Dr. Hopps somewhat dismissively as "Long ears" and is noticeably sceptical of Dr. Hopps's promised reward. He's named after Bill Watterson, creator of _Calvin and Hobbes_.

A toff, in British slang, is someone well-dressed, typically with an aristocratic background. The first use of the word dates to about 1850, and is thought to have derived from a corruption of the word "tuft," a term used at Oxford University to refer to undergraduates whose caps bore the gold ornamental tassel that indicated their fathers were members of the House of Lords.

In "A Study in Gold" it is mentioned that the Rain Forest District is a valley with a greenhouse built over it, taking inspiration from the Crystal Palace.

Arc lamps were an early form of electric lighting, which produce light by applying electric current across two electrodes with an air gap between them. Even after the invention of lightbulbs, which have a mellower light and are more reliable for long term usage, arc lamps remained in use in certain applications that needed high-intensity light, such as searchlights. Arc lamps were available commercially in 1881, and their presence in Glacier Hospital suggests a very modern building.

Although medical records saw increasing use throughout the 19th century, it was only towards the end of the century that anything approaching modern patient records began to see use.

Cheques, as checks are known outside the US, were indeed in use in the late 19th century, and pre-printed cheques were first used by the Bank of England in 1717. Cheque books were in use starting from 1811, making it a less cumbersome process than the original requirement of filling out the cheque at the bank.

Ten million pounds in 1881 is worth more than a billion pounds today, so suffice it to say that Quixano's trust is worth an absolute fortune.

Areion or Arion is the name of a horse from Greek mythology, said to have been sired by the god Poseidon when he took the form of a stallion and found Demeter, the goddess of grain and fertility who had turned herself into a mare and hid in a herd of horses to avoid his advances. Mythology can be kind of weird.

The comic operetta that Adam Hayes plays the Major-General in is, of course, _The Pirates of Penzance; or, the Slave of Duty_. Although the authors, Arthur Sullivan and W.S. Gilbert, were British, it actually premiered in the United States in 1879 before it was ever performed in the UK. The reason for this was an attempt at getting a copyright in the US; their previous work, _The HMS Pinafore,_ had been widely pirated in the US since at the time the US did not really offer copyright protection to foreign authors. _The Pirates of Penzance_ was an immediate hit both in the US and in the UK (where it premiered in 1880), and in its original run in London it ran for almost a year with 363 performances. By the time this story is set in late 1881, that original theatrical run had been over for more than half a year, but it was still a popular work with a touring version that ran until 1884.

Adam Hayes may seem a bit too young to play the Major-General, who in modern productions is frequently played by a man in his sixties or older, but in earlier performances it wasn't unusual for the role to go to a man in his mid-thirties. Indeed, the first actor to play the part, J. H. Ryley, was only 38 at the time. I'll leave further commentary for the actual appearance of the operetta.

As always, thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought.


	13. Chapter 13

The theatre that Wilde guided me to was not nearly as modern as the Serval Theatre, which had opened shortly after my move to Zootopia and was the subject of much glowing press, which I can now attest to be entirely well-deserved although I would not see a show there until many weeks later. Without that point of reference, and indeed even now that I have it, I can say that the Comet Theatre was splendid in its own right. It was located in an older part of Tundra Town, and it was clear that great pains had been taken so that the architecture matched; it was a positively Gothic creation of large grey bricks, quite speckled with moss, and the entire exterior of the hexagonal building was covered with elaborate blind arcades. The pillars along this façade looked to have been cast rather than carved, but they were no less wonderful for it, being topped and covered with geometric patterns. Before we could enter the theatre, however, Wilde pulled the envelope from his pocket and pulled out one of the tickets. "I must make a quick stop first," he said as he gave it to me, "But you shall see me before the curtain rises."

"I did not think I would be so easily rid of you," I said, "But what is it you must do?"

Wilde offered me what I supposed was his most winning smile. "Ensuring we have our opportunity to see Mr. Hayes after the show, of course," he said, "Besides, it wouldn't do to give the mammal taking tickets the wrong impression."

"The wrong impression?" I repeated before what Wilde was implying occurred to me, and I could feel my ears flush.

It was not uncommon, after all, for the two of us to get queer looks when together; when I had taken Wilde out to a meal shortly after the resolution of the first case I had accompanied him on, the waiter had been rather cloying in his concern over me before at last asking how my family handled the shame. Although I had corrected him that Wilde and I were simply friends and that it was none of his business besides, it had rather soured the mood and I do not think Wilde enjoyed the rest of the meal. As I wished simply to enjoy a performance with my dear friend, and I certainly did not want his own enjoyment to be ruined by some small-minded mammal leaping to ridiculous conclusions, I quickly added, "I understand completely."

Wilde smiled. "Wonderful," he said, and then sauntered off, leaving me to make my way into the theatre.

The interior of the theatre was quite as magnificent as the outside, with a vaulted ceiling that disappeared into the shadows that the gas lamps lighting the theatre could not banish. The floor of the lobby had been tiled in a splendid mosaic of cut glass in an elaborate geometric pattern that somewhat recalled a stained glass window, and the cold grey of the stone walls was offset by gaily coloured posters advertising upcoming shows and by the dark wood of the furnishings. The ticket Wilde had given me was for an excellent seat, for the theatre had been cleverly designed in a series of scalloped layers such that the seats for the largest mammals did not have to be at the very back of the theatre so as to ensure that shorter mammals had a view. Although Billy had apparently not taken the expense of paying for one of the elaborate private boxes that clung to the walls of the theatre, I could not in good conscience complain.

I had barely finished reading the programme, listening to the orchestra warm up, when Wilde claimed his seat at my side, a cheerful look upon his face. "We shall have our opportunity after the operetta ends," he murmured in my ear, for the theatre was beginning to fill with patrons and the acoustics made every sound travel far.

I nodded, and when a question occurred to me I beckoned Wilde until he leaned down and I could whisper in his own ear. "Have you ever seen this operetta before?" I asked, and Wilde shook his head.

"It shall be a new experience for the both of us," he whispered back, and any further conversation was halted when the gas went down until we were in almost absolute darkness, only the velvet curtain illuminated by brilliant limelight.

I do not wish to spoil the operetta for any who have not seen it, for it is truly worth seeing performed, so I will say only that even now, when I have seen additional performances of other works by Gilboar and Squirrellivan, _Pirates_ remains my favourite. Adam Hayes was brilliant as Major-General Stanley, and there were several points during the show when, carried by the boisterous enthusiasm of the audience, I could feel tears of laughter forming in my eyes. I know I had never heard Wilde laugh so much as he did during the operetta, and I felt no small pang of regret after it was well and truly over.

For our part, once the actors had taken their bows and the gas had gone back up, Wilde and I joined the throng of mammals streaming for the exits before breaking off for an unremarkable door all but hidden in wood panelling. As Wilde would later explain to me that the mammal who guided us to Adam Hayes's dressing room was not, technically speaking, supposed to do so and did it only as a favour (which I suspect Wilde paid for), I will not describe that mammal so that they may not worry over their job. I shall say only that Wilde and I were led, in silence almost as oppressive as the dark corridors that formed a maze not visible to the general public, to the dressing rooms of the actors before our guide vanished into the gloom.

Wilde rapped at a door which had been labelled "ADAM HAYES" with a small placard, and called out, "Mr. Hayes?" in a firm tone.

There was a moment where I could only hear the shuffling of a mammal moving around in the room, and then the door opened. "Yes, what is it?" Hayes asked, poking his head out.

I was struck by how very different Adam Hayes appeared out of costume compared to when I had seen him on the stage. As the somewhat doddering Major-General he had been a farcically pompous figure, and from where I had sat I would have said that he was a mammal of sixty or more years. Indeed, between the curly and dully white threads that had been woven into his mane and tail, the rheumatic and slightly stooped way he had moved, and the quaver to his voice I found the performance so entirely convincing that it was difficult to reconcile the horse before me with the one who had been on stage. The mammal who was looking out at Wilde and me with a slightly puzzled look, however, was a tall and strapping horse in his vigorous thirties, his back proudly straight and his voice rich and mellow. His fur was the same beautifully golden colour it had appeared on stage, gleaming like a sovereign, and with the curly threads removed from his glossy white mane and tail he appeared far more dignified, an impression only furthered by the luxurious purple smoking jacket he wore. "I am sorry to bother you," Wilde said, "I am Nicholas Wilde, consulting detective, and this is Dr. Hopps. Might we have a moment of your time?"

I had half-expected Hayes to close the door in our faces when we did not appear to be autograph seekers, but the horse simply looked at Wilde for a long moment.

"Nicholas Wilde," Hayes repeated, his tone thoughtful, "Nicholas Wilde. Where have I heard your name before?"

Before either Wilde or I could give any kind of response, the horse's expression brightened as he snapped his fingers, throwing the door all the way open. "A-ha!" he cried, "Now I remember. It was while I was in Baaston for a performance of _Our Amarecan Cousin_ in '79. There was a vixen in the theatre company there, a singer and an actress. I cannot recall her real name, but she performed as Autumn Skye."

He looked at Wilde expectantly, and I did the same. I cannot, even now, say what it is that I saw in the face of my friend. Certainly there was no indicator that I could point to of his mood, no subtle motion of his ears or his tail, no flicker of his eyes or his lips, but there was some kind of nearly imperceptible reaction that I doubt anyone else would have caught. Indeed, were it not for what happened later I might have totally dismissed my thought as a fantasy on my part, for when Wilde spoke his tone was blandly polite. "Ah, yes," Wilde said, "I knew her before she returned to her native Amareca."

"Then we are very well met," Hayes said, "There had been an audacious jewellery theft in Baaston while I was there—it was in all the papers—and Miss Skye said that of all the mammals in all the world, Nicholas Wilde was the only one who would have any chance of recovering the gems. None of us knew who she meant, so she told us—well! If she was not exaggerating then you are clever indeed, sir, for to my knowledge the Amarecan police are still baffled."

He eagerly thrust his hoof towards Wilde and pumped the fox's paw in a firm shake. "Still, I thought it queer that I should have to be in Amareca, and hear it from the lips of an Amarecan, the deeds of the world's greatest detective when he is a Zootopian," Hayes continued, his enthusiasm completely unflagging, "Please, do come in."

"You flatter me," Wilde said, although I could not help but notice he did nothing more to dissuade the horse's fulsome praise and there was an obvious smile touching his lips as he disengaged his paw and cut a quick bow before we followed Hayes into the dressing room.

For my part, I could not help but feel my curiosity inflamed at what adventure of Wilde's could have resulted in such a glowing opinion. Was Skye simply a former client of Wilde's, or had he perhaps had another companion before me, improper as it would have been for a male and a female of the same species to split a room? Or could it be possible that she had been something more to him? I had never seen him express anything that might be construed as romantic interest in another mammal before, but perhaps it had been some tragic case of heartbreak that had led him to swear off romance and close down his affections. Certainly, it felt unsettlingly _wrong_ to imagine Wilde in such a relationship. To try picturing him whispering sweet nothings or gazing longingly into a vixen's eyes was downright absurd, as impossible as imagining him to be a bunny.

More importantly to the case at hand, however, I wondered if it could be coincidence that Hayes had spent time in Amareca. Wilde had suggested that something of great importance in the life of the deceased Lord Whinnypeg had occurred there, and it seemed possible that Hayes had learnt his step-father's secret. "Then what is it that brings you to my dressing room?" Hayes asked, his enthusiasm finally dimming as a frown crossed his features, "Surely the burglary of my flat cannot be a matter the police would consider worthy of your attention."

Wilde's ears pricked up as Hayes spoke, but he maintained his professional tone. "There have been several attempts on the life of Mr. Lawrence Quixano," Wilde said rather casually as he glanced about the dressing room, "Do you know him?"

The dressing room, to my eyes, was rather unremarkable. I would have expected it to be quite a bit larger and more glamorous, but it was instead practically utilitarian, not even half the size of the parlour in the flat I shared with Wilde. I do not mean to imply that it was shabby, however, for quite the opposite was true; the walls of white-washed brick had been scrubbed entirely free of grime, and while the furniture was far from new it looked well cared for, as did the mirror that dominated one wall, near which was set a desk and chair that would be small but perfectly serviceable for a horse. There were also two sagging settees set in one corner of the room with a table in between them. Atop the table was a rather plain silver tea service with two equally un-ornamented cups and saucers set before it. Standing near the settees, looking somewhat put-out by the intrusion Wilde and I had made, was a maid who looked to be of an age with Hayes. She looked to be a quagga, her striped fur standing out against her muted black dress, and she stood perhaps a foot shorter than her employer and had a slender build. She did not say a word even as Wilde and I entered, merely lowering her head and apparently waiting for Hayes to call upon her.

"Quixano?" Hayes asked, "Is he quite all right? Please, you must have a seat and tell me what has happened."

He gestured us over to one of the settees as he took the one opposite it, and while the concern in the horse's voice sounded genuine I could not help but remember that he was, after all, an actor, and from having seen his performance quite obviously a talented one. As Wilde and I sat down, Hayes turned to his maid. "Hope, could you please fetch some fresh tea for my guests?" he said, but Wilde demurred.

"That won't be necessary, Miss..." Wilde said, clearly waiting for the maid to supply her name.

"Quaggason," she said in a low voice with a demure curtsy, and Wilde nodded.

"I'm afraid it is too late for either Dr. Hopps or myself to be drinking tea, Miss Quaggason, but it is most kind of you to offer," he said, a smile touching his face, but I suspected that the same thought running through my own head might have occurred to him.

Indeed, if Adam Hayes was responsible for the attempts on Quixano's life, I should not want to drink anything provided by him or his maid. Miss Quaggason simply nodded and stepped back, but Hayes did not seem to mind her presence as Wilde and I together told the story of what had happened to Quixano. Hayes was an attentive audience, occasionally interrupting to ask for further clarification and making sympathetic noises at all the right places. Once more, however, the knowledge that he was an actor refused to leave my head, for I really could not tell whether it was performance or genuine concern.

When at last we had reached the end of our telling, Hayes leaned back. "Well, I certainly understand why you wish to speak to me, but I am afraid I must disappoint you," he said, "I did not know my step-father had an illegitimate son until the will was read, and I have not seen Lawrence Quixano since then. He seemed a decent enough fellow, mind. He was as lost in the legal details as I was."

"I see," Wilde replied, "You attended the reading of the will?"

"I did," Hayes said, "I did not expect any piece of his estate, of course—Lord Whinnypeg never cared for me—but I had hoped for my mother's engagement ring from her marriage to my father. The ring was all I received, and I was quite satisfied for I would not have trusted the Whinnypegs to give it to me had it been left out of the will."

I supposed that it made sense; since Hayes's mother had predeceased her second husband all her property would have gone to the elder Lord Whinnypeg. It seemed rather petty, however, for Lord Whinnypeg to hold onto the engagement ring from the Lady Whinnypeg's first marriage until his own death, and I said as much. Hayes simply shrugged. "As I said, my step-father never cared much for me," he said, and then with a slightly rueful air added, "Something his own children and I had in common, I suppose."

Wilde made a wordless noise of agreement as he leaned forward. "Did your mother speak nothing of your step-father's affair?" he asked, and Hayes frowned.

"I was quite young at the time, you must recall, and quite ill besides," he said, "I spent most of my youth with pneumonia. I am sure it was quite embarrassing to her, but she never allowed me to see her own unhappiness."

It was hard to believe, seeing the strapping horse before us, that he had ever been sickly, but his version of events did match what the current Lord Whinnypeg had described. "Besides," Ms. Quaggason cut in suddenly and rather unexpectedly, "Roberta Quixano's charges were the Whinnypegs, not Master Hayes."

"Ah," Wilde replied, turning to look at the maid, appearing completely unruffled by the interruption, "You served in the Whinnypeg estate, then?"

"Not precisely," Hayes replied, and the look in his eyes as he turned to his maid was rather kindly, "Hope is the daughter of one of the cooks and was raised in the estate's kitchens. She was my only companion for many years, as the Whinnypegs would have nothing to do with me, Lord Whinnypeg most of all."

I could understand why he would be fond of the maid, considering their history together, and I was thus unsurprised when Quaggason added, "When Master Hayes left the Whinnypeg estate, he asked me to go with as his maid."

"I daresay travelling to Zootopia seemed far more exciting than remaining in the Meadowlands," Wilde said with a nod, "Now, did you hear anything of Lord Whinnypeg's affair?"

Quaggason hesitated a moment, her eyes going to Hayes, but the horse nodded. "You may tell them anything," he said, and the maid spoke.

"Whispers and rumours, sir," she said, and even with her employer's permission her reluctance was obvious, "I was a filly at the time Miss Quixano left, and of course talk of infidelity was not considered proper for my ears. I supposed it was just gossip, and the major-domo had no tolerance so such talk."

"I see," Wilde replied, stroking at his muzzle, and then he turned his attention back to Hayes.

"You understand, of course, that I must ask if you have an alibi for when the attempts on Quixano's life were made," Wilde said, and then he turned back to Quaggason, "The both of you."

Neither Hayes nor his maid seemed particularly offended by the question, although I found it interesting myself that Wilde had not directly asked the current Lord Whinnypeg the same question. "They occurred the night of the twenty-seventh, you said?" he asked, and Wilde nodded.

"Well, I would say our alibis are particularly solid," Hayes said with a smile, "For we were trapped in this very theatre. After the last performance of the day, the weather was too inclement to leave. You have never seen an audience's mood turn so quickly from good humour to bad as when they learnt after the operetta ended that they could leave only at their own risk."

"Master Hayes and the other actors did their best to keep those mammals trapped here in good spirits," Quaggason added, and the pride in her employer's actions was evident in her voice.

I supposed that there was quite a bit of difference between being forced to stay in a hotel due to poor weather and being forced to stay in a theatre; the former was of course designed for overnight occupation while the latter was not. "I only hope my performances today did not suffer," Hayes said, "I have yet to truly catch up on my sleep and that blasted patter song is never easy."

"Your performance tonight was incredible," I offered with perfect sincerity, and Wilde added, "Truly, it was a most remarkable display you treated us to."

"Are you quite sure?" Hayes asked, and there was a slightly anxious note to his voice, "I feel my performances are—"

"You were extraordinary, Master Hayes," Quaggason interrupted, and from the tone of her voice I suspected that Hayes was prone to self-doubt about his performances even at the best of time.

"Thank you, Hope," Hayes replied, and I thought his anxiety lessened somewhat.

"Now, you said your flat had been burgled recently," Wilde said, changing the topic suddenly, "Could you tell me what happened?"

Hayes looked up at Quaggason before looking at Wilde again. "There is not much to tell, I'm afraid," he said, "It occurred on the twenty-third. I was putting on a performance here and Hope was out shopping. When she returned, the window had been broken and my flat had been ransacked."

"What was stolen?" Wilde asked, and it seemed to take Hayes a moment to respond as he mentally tallied his losses.

"Perhaps thirty pounds in notes and coins and three of my finest suits," Hayes said, "And a rifle. I had nothing else of any real value in my flat, for I have never been the sort of mammal to hoard possessions and I have always carried my mother's ring with me since I received it. You see?"

As he spoke, he pulled a necklace away from the fur of his neck, the thin silver chain becoming visible. There was indeed a ring on the necklace, a rather simple thing of gold inset with a few chips of diamond.

"A rifle?" I asked, and I could not contain my excitement as I leaned forward, although perhaps to Hayes it appeared as though I was simply examining the ring.

"Yes, a rifle," Hayes replied as he tucked the ring away, "It had belonged to my step-father, and he gave it to Edward Whinnypeg when he joined the military. At least, that is the story Edward told me when I won it off him in a game of cards last year, but I am not sure if it is true. To be honest, I never particularly cared for that rifle—it was incredibly gaudy and I have no use for a rifle—but I thought it might have been the bargaining chip I needed to get my mother's engagement ring back. As I got the ring, I offered to sell the rifle back to Edward, but he told me I had won it fairly."

Wilde and I exchanged a look; I am sure we both knew that the rifle Hayes spoke of could only be the one that had been used in the attempt on Quixano's life. "Do you and Edward frequent the same club, then?" Wilde asked, and Hayes nodded.

"We both go to the Eachaidhe Club, him far more frequently than I," Hayes said, "Although even when we are both in attendance, we rarely talk, for I prefer whist and he baccarat, and we are more like friendly acquaintances now than family."

"Do you see any of the other Whinnypegs with any frequency?" Wilde asked, and Hayes response was immediate.

"Not at all. If William or Lisa gambles, it is not at a club I attend, and none of the three makes social calls," Hayes said.

"I see," Wilde replied, "How well did you describe the rifle when you reported it stolen to the police?"

"As well as I could," Hayes said, and he seemed baffled at the question, "Not that I have much hopes of it being recovered. Still, it taught me a valuable lesson. I am having iron bars put over my windows and my door reinforced. What would have happened if Hope had not been shopping when the burglar broke in?"

"It is for her safety, then, that she now goes to your shows?" Wilde asked, and Hayes nodded.

"I would be entirely lost without her," Hayes said, and I saw the insides of Quaggason's ears flush.

"I daresay you may yet be reunited with your rifle," Wilde said, "For I do believe it may have been used in the attempt on Quixano's life. The police have it as evidence now."

Hayes's eyes widened and Quaggason staggered back a step. "You think someone meant to frame me?" he asked, and Wilde shrugged.

"Considering your alibi, it would seem to be a rather crude attempt, would it not?" Wilde asked, seemingly rhetorically, for he sprang to his feet.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Hayes, and you as well Miss Quaggason," he said, "We shall not take any more of your time."

We made our goodbyes and left the theatre. The instant that were outdoors, I turned to Wilde. "What do you think?" I asked.

My own thoughts ran wildly. Had Hayes conspired with Edward Whinnypeg to murder Lawrence Quixano, staging a robbery of his flat to show his innocence? They had attended the same club, after all, and no matter what Hayes had said, their relationship may have been cosy enough to plot murder. But to what end? I could not for the life of me see what Hayes had to gain by murdering Quixano, and was it not a simpler explanation that someone was attempting to frame Hayes?

Wilde paused a moment. "I think, dear doctor, that the hour is growing late," he said at last, "And should you fall asleep again before we board the tramway, I shall have rather less luck in getting you back to our flat."

I frowned, for although Wilde's tone was light and teasing I could see the truth of his words. Even the sleep I had gotten after our return to our flat did not feel as though it had completely refreshed me, for I was beginning to feel somewhat worn out again. "We shall talk of the case in the morning to-morrow," Wilde promised, "But on our return trip to-night I would much rather speak of the operetta."

My first instinct was to protest, but it occurred to me that Wilde might be right. He had, rather kindly, invited me to what had ended up being one of the most enjoyable nights I had ever spent in Zootopia, or indeed in all of my life. Did I not owe it to him to repay that in some way? Quixano did not appear to be in any immediate danger any longer and I had the utmost faith in my friend's abilities.

"Well," I said at last, "Surely you must have seen the allusions in the Major-General's role."

Wilde smiled widely. "You forget, dear doctor, that I am not a military mammal myself. Please, I should like to hear your theory."

The rest of the trip back to our flat passed in lively conversation, focused on nothing more than our shared enjoyment of the operetta, and when I had finished preparing for bed and my head hit my pillow I could not help but smile. My last thought, before I drifted off to sleep, was that it really had been a wonderful night.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

The existence of the Serval Theatre is a reference to the real-life Savoy Theatre, which would be quite new indeed at the time this story is set. The Savoy Theatre opened in October of 1881, right around when Dr. Hopps moved to Zootopia, and was state of the art. It was entirely lit by incandescent light bulbs, something that the press greatly approved of; beside electric lights providing superior illumination compared to gas lamps as I have previously mentioned, gas lamps were particularly poor for theatres as they made an area already packed with bodies even more stiflingly hot. The Savoy Theatre is also strongly associated with the operettas of Gilbert and Sullivan since it was the location where many of them premiered, with the first show ever put on at the theatre being _Patience_. The Savoy Theatre is still open to this day, although it underwent a significant remodelling in 1929 and was rebuilt again following a fire in 1990, although great pains were taken to give it the same appearance. The theatre that Wilde and Dr. Hopps visit, by contrast, is the sort that would likely be torn down in a few years rather than going to the effort of modernizing it with electric lighting.

Still, many theatres firmly targeted the middle class in the late 19th century, so what I described would not have been entirely uncommon. Note that the theatre isn't actually a work of Gothic architecture, but rather a significantly later work that simply copies the look, as indicated by the pillars being cast concrete rather than carved stone. The appearance of the theatre is a bit of a joke; it's called the Comet Theatre after Santa's reindeer, and the theatre's exterior is covered with reindeer moss. The interior of the theatre is my solution for how to design a theatre so that large mammals are not unfairly forced to always sit at the back of the theatre to prevent blocking the view of mammals behind them. I imagine the layout to be somewhat sinusoidal, thus ensuring that there are good (and bad) seats for mammals of all sizes.

Also of note is that the Comet Theatre uses limelight to illuminate the stage. Limelight was, in fact, a real form of gas lighting involving directing an oxyhydrogen flame onto a cylinder of quicklime, which produces a bright light. The expression "to be in the limelight" is thus derived from literal limelight, the expression having survived the death of the lighting technology. Limelight was most commonly used in theatres in the 1860s and the 1870s, with many theatres switching to electric arc lights for spotlights and incandescent lightbulbs for general illumination throughout the end of the 19th century.

The last chapter of "A Study in Gold" ends with Wilde and Dr. Hopps about to go out to breakfast. This chapter alludes to the unseen events of that breakfast perhaps not going quite as smoothly as might be hoped.

Gilboar and Squirrellivan are my punny take on Gilbert and Sullivan, the real-life duo who wrote _The Pirates of Penzance_ and many other operettas. In the late 19th century, pirate stories were wildly popular, in much the same way that we're currently in the age of superhero films. In much the same way that there are superhero movies that range widely in tone, so too did pirate stories fill different niches in the 19th century, from adventure to romance to comedy. _The Pirates of Penzance_ is a straight-up comedy, based on the premise of a boy's nurse accidentally apprenticing him to a pirate instead of a pilot (that is, a person who steers a ship). The operetta thereafter treats being a pirate like being any other sort of job a person can be apprenticed to, although the titular pirates are comically bad at being pirates. Incidentally, Penzance is a real place, popular at the time the operetta was written as a quiet resort town. It'd be something like a modern work being called _The Pirates of Martha's Vineyard_ , as to audiences at the time the very idea of the place having a pirate problem would be funny.

The patter song that Hayes refers to is the "Major-General's Song," arguably the most famous piece of music Gilbert and Sullivan wrote. It's fast-paced, full of references, difficult to sing well, and slyly pokes fun at the British military. Personally, it's my favorite song by the duo, although I would rank _The Mikado_ as my favorite operetta of theirs overall. "As some day it may happen," also known as "I've Got a Little List," is a great song in its own right, particularly with the location-appropriate references most productions add, and I find the story to be overall more amusing.

One of the things that has struck me about a few of the original Sherlock Holmes story is the point where common sense comes into conflict with the framing device. The stories are supposedly written by Dr. Watson, occasionally with details changed slightly to protect the people involved, which I can certainly buy as an excuse. However, in "The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton," I'm not sure that that excuse holds, unless Watson radically altered the events. In that story, Sherlock Holmes and Watson break and enter into a man's home, watch him get murdered, nearly get caught by the police as they flee, and do nothing about bringing the murderer to justice because they think the victim deserved it. Whether you agree with them or not, the story is wildly incriminating. Thus, in this story, Dr. Hopps purposefully leaving out the details of the mammal Wilde got to bring them to the dressing room is my way of maintaining the framing device that these stories are intended for publication; if the mammal is potentially risking their job by doing so, they surely wouldn't appreciate being described or named. Of course, it's also possible that a story in this series might explicitly be something that was written down but never published.

A sovereign is a British coin with a nominal value of one pound, made out of gold. As described, Adam Hayes has palomino coloring; horses that meet what is considered the ideal of a palomino really do have fur that has something of a metallic golden sheen to it, with a white mane and tail.

As I have mentioned before, this story, and "A Study in Gold" before it, fit into an overarching series. Both stories have plot threads that don't necessarily pay off in the story they first appear in; make what you will of a reference to an Amarecan vixen who is an actress and a singer. For my part, I will note only that the character of Irene Adler from the original Sherlock story "A Scandal in Bohemia" was an American opera singer and say that I worked out a backstory for consulting detective Wilde that differs from Sherlock's in many regards.

Baaston is naturally a pun on the onomatopoeia for the sound a sheep makes with the city of Boston. I think it works particularly well since it actually sounds a bit like how Boston is said with a thick Boston accent.

The play that Adam Hayes references appearing in based on _Our American Cousin_ , a real play that debuted in 1858. Although it's probably most commonly remembered today as the play that Abraham Lincoln was attending when he was assassinated, it was enormously popular in the latter half of the 19th century, spawning many sequels and even imitators. Indeed, after the play came out, "Dundrearyisms," which were malapropisms in the style of a character named Dundreary in the play, were briefly popular. As an example, in the play Dundreary gives the wrong answer to a joke riddle, saying that the answer to the question, "When is a dog's tail not a dog's tail?" is "When it's a cart," rather than the correct answer "When it's a-waggin'," as he confuses wagon with cart.

The play itself, as you might guess from that joke, is a broad farce. The plot is about an American encountering his British relatives when he goes to England, so it makes sense that it's the sort of work Hayes would have appeared in before playing a role in _The Pirates of Penzance_.

Quaggas are an extinct species of zebra, but the way I see it, there's no reason why mammals that are extinct in our world have to be extinct in the world of Zootopia. In the real world quaggas went extinct in 1878, extinction being a result of a relatively low starting population not being able to recover from the animals being hunted.

Diamond engagement rings in the late 19th century were still largely restricted to the wealthy and the noble, and while engagement rings in general were popular with the middle class diamonds were not. It took an aggressive advertisement campaign in the late 1930s on the part of the diamond cartel De Beers to get the notion that a "proper" engagement ring has a diamond in it into the public consciousness, but the Lady Whinnypeg having a diamond engagement ring makes sense considering her station.

The Eachaidhe Club is a joke on the Jockey Club, the real-life organization for jockeys. The word Eachaidhe is Gaelic for horseman (as in, a man who rides a horse) and is pronounced very similarly to the word jockey; it's been proposed as a likely origin for the word jockey in English. I imagine that jockeys don't exist in the world of Zootopia (at least for the purposes of racing horses), as horse races would be more like track and field events in our world.

Whist was popular in the late 19th century and is the game that bridge is derived from; like bridge it is a team game requiring two teams of two players. Baccarat was not nearly as popular as whist in 1881, although the game would become quite popular in 1891 after the royal baccarat scandal since newspapers published the rules of the game as part of the stories around the scandal.

The allusion about the Major-General that Dr. Hopps mentions, but does not describe, is one that I give you major (pardon the pun) kudos if you get, since it ties into another piece of this chapter. Major-General Stanley from _The Pirates of Penzance_ was widely interpreted, at the time the operetta came out, to be a parody of the real-life Field Marshall Garnet Wolseley; it was quite common for performances of _Pirates_ to have their Major-General appear with Wolseley's distinctive mustache. In this chapter, it's mentioned that Adam Hayes had curly white threads added to his mane and tail, which I intended to evoke wool; this is a roundabout way of having the animal pun of Field Marshall Garnet Woolseley, the sheep. Garnet Wolseley was actually aware of the common supposition around Major-General Stanley, and by most accounts he didn't take offense, even occasionally amusing his guests at parties by singing snippets of the Major-General's song.

As always, thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought.


	14. Chapter 14

I awoke in the morning feeling completely refreshed, without so much as a lingering vestige of my poisoning or previous tiredness. When I left my bed-room I saw that Wilde was in the midst of breakfast, a cup of tea and a plate of toast so completely covered with jam that the bread was hardly visible in front of him and a messy stack of telegrams spilling across the table stopped only from spreading further by a jam jar that blocked their progress. "Good morning, Hopps," Wilde remarked, "I trust you slept well?"

"Quite soundly," I agreed, "And yourself?"

Wilde shrugged. "Well enough, I suppose," he said, and I suspected that if his sleep had been uneasy it had been because his keen mind would not cease churning through the possibilities.

"I must remind you to compliment your mother on the quality of her jam," he added as he took a bite out of his toast, "It really is quite extraordinary."

I saw then that the jam jar he was using to prevent his pile of telegrams from toppling over was one of the jars I had gifted him for Christmas, which was more than half empty. I was truly glad to see that he obviously enjoyed it, and will also admit that I thought his praise for the product of my family's farm might do no small good in endearing him toward them. My parents, and my father in particular, were ambivalent at best to the idea of my having a fox for a roommate. No matter how well I wrote or spoke of Wilde as a truly civilized mammal who other foxes would be well-served to take as a model example, there was always a cautious undercurrent in their responses, as though they expected him to take advantage of me in some manner.

"Why, you greedy fox!" I cried, my teasing mixed somewhat with genuine surprise at how quickly the jam was disappearing, "Whatever happened to rationing it?"

"It would be a shame to let it spoil once the jar is open, would it not?" Wilde asked, and as he spoke I saw that his tongue had gone rather purple, "Still, I appreciate the reminder. I would have offered to share, but of course you will not think me churlish if I decline that I may ration it more effectively."

I smiled. "Not at all," I replied.

"Not at all?" Wilde echoed as he took an enormous bite out of his bit of toast and allowed his face to take on an expression of pure ecstasy.

"Well, hardly at all," I said.

Wilde chuckled as he poured me a cup of tea. I took my own place at the table, and despite his words he did in fact push the plate of toast in my direction. "You had said we would speak to-day of what you had learned last night," I said as I took up one of the proffered pieces.

My companion nodded. "About our present case I'm teeming with a lot o' news," Wilde replied, and then frowned, rolling his paw.

"You haven't a rhyme?" I asked, and I did nothing to hide my amusement at his obviously joking inability to continue, "I may make a suggestion, if you should need it."

His imitation of Hayes's singing cadences left something to be desired, for despite all his talent with the violin Wilde was a remarkably poor singer, but his intent was obvious.

"No, no, I have it. With many cheerful facts about our multitude of gathered clues," Wilde finished triumphantly, and bowed in his chair as though expecting applause.

I humoured him by clapping slowly, and when I finished Wilde lifted his head. "And what would those cheerful facts be?" I asked.

"I shall go beyond what I learned from our interview with Hayes, but we may start there. Now, whether Hayes did or did not have his flat burgled, did you notice something of interest about his claim?" Wilde asked.

I frowned as I thought through what Hayes had said, sipping at my tea as I wrestled with the matter. "The twenty-third was the same day Quixano checked into the Chateau Talpen, was it not?" I said at last, and Wilde nodded approvingly.

"Exactly," he said, "By that fact, we can intuit that a plan to murder Quixano was put into motion on that date. The location being established, the means was then also chosen."

I thought on Wilde's words before I spoke again. "You do not know, then, whether or not Hayes was lying about the burglary?" I asked, and Wilde seemed to think the matter over for a moment.

"I do not," he said, "We may think of an actor as a master liar, trained and experienced at expressing that which they do not truly feel. Or so we may describe a good actor, at least, and the performance Hayes displayed onstage is enough to convince me he is good indeed. Even were he not, I would not rely on outward displays of emotion in an interview, for the difference in expression between mendacity and nervousness can be narrow indeed."

I nodded, for Wilde's words made sense to me, but I countered, "And what of his maid, then? Surely she is no actress."

"Perhaps not," Wilde replied, "She either has no ability to hide her emotions or is even better at acting than her employer."

I thought that the former seemed the more likely of the two options and said as much, in response to which Wilde simply shrugged. "We shall see," he said, "Certainly she seems rather fond of him."

"Perhaps she acted alone, then?" I ventured, "The alibi Hayes provided seems rather more solid for him than for her."

"Indeed, I have no doubts that Hayes was not in the Chateau Talpen when the attempts were made on Quixano's life," Wilde agreed, "Now, onto another point of interest, his mother's engagement ring is all but worthless. With the exception of the small centre stone, all the gems are paste, and the ring itself is only gold-plated."

I would have to defer to Wilde's expertise on the matter of the ring, but I could not help but add, "Worthless in monetary value, perhaps. Certainly it has quite a bit of sentimental value."

Wilde inclined his head to concede the point. "As you say," he agreed, "Certainly it was no valuable antique that the late Lord Whinnypeg should wish to retain, and he had no reason to think fondly of his wife's first husband. It does help complete the picture of the Whinnypeg family, however. The late Lady Margaret Whinnypeg, née Hayes, née Oates, was the youngest child of a noble of minor rank and of so little money that he was forced to sell off the family seat of Oates Hall for a pittance. The Hayes were little better, as poor in land and titles as they were in money, and the joining of the two families by marriage was perhaps the best match either could have hoped for. The engagement ring is, therefore, exactly what we may expect. The question becomes, then, why would the late Lord Whinnypeg marry her once she was widowed? Certainly it was not for love, but what then?"

It had not occurred to me before he brought the topic up, but I realized that Wilde was entirely correct. The match between the late Lord Whinnypeg and his wife was peculiar indeed; as a wealthy noble of no minor rank he might even have hoped to marry a marchioness to elevate his own station. Why, then, had he married a mare of lower standing than himself? As Wilde had said, I did not think that there had been any love between the late lord and his wife, and I was at a loss for an explanation. "I do not know," I admitted, "Why?"

"A question I do not yet know the answer to," Wilde said cheerfully, "Although I hope to arrive at an answer soon. Now, if I may venture beyond our interview with Hayes, some of my lines of inquiry are starting to pay off despite the many dead ends."

He gestured vaguely at his stack of telegrams, and then pulled a newspaper from off the table. "See what you make of this," he said, and tapped an advertisement he had circled in pencil.

The paper, I noted, was from the twenty-fourth, and the advertisement he had indicated ran as follows:

 _WANTED: Stallions of a strong character, ages 20 to 40, for a discreet job of national importance. Fine clothes a must. Inquire at 20 Paddock Ln. Limited opportunities. Each stallion chosen to be paid £10 for a day's work._

"How very cloak and dagger, would you not say?" Wilde remarked as I looked over the page at him once I had read it, "Certainly it must have seemed quite alluring."

"You suppose that this is how the would-be murderer arranged to have more than a score of stallions check into the hotel?" I asked.

"It fits quite neatly, I think," Wilde said, "When I learned, while we were in Tundra Town, that thirty-eight stallions had checked into the hotel, I deduced that assembling thirty-seven or thirty-eight stallions to be a not insignificant undertaking, and from there that our would-be murderer must have had some means of doing so. I recalled this advertisement—which you might be interested to learn ran in the paper from the twenty-fourth through the twenty-seventh—from my perusal of the agony columns and gossip rags while searching for information on the Whinnypeg family."

I followed the pathways of Wilde's logic well enough; certainly it seemed quite plausible that the advertisement was connected to how the stallions had been assembled. What's more, Wilde's lack of firmness on the total number of stallions so contracted suggested he thought it possible that the mastermind behind the attempt might not have ever been in the hotel at all; certainly if they wished to totally hide their identity it would have been the best means of doing so. Moreover, it was extremely suggestive that the advertisement had first appeared in the paper the day after Quixano had checked into the hotel and disappeared the very day that the attempts on Quixano's life were made. "Shall we go to this address, then?" I asked, quite eager to continue the investigation.

"We shall," Wilde replied, "But I have more information that may interest you. You may read the late Lord Whinnypeg's will yourself, should you like, or I may summarize it for you."

He offered me a thick sheaf of papers, which I suspected had arrived while we had been out the previous day, and I shook my head. "A summary will suffice," I said, for I myself had no extraordinary knowledge of the law and would likely be quite lost if I attempted to read a legal document.

"Are you sure?" Wilde said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "It's quite riveting, I assure you."

"Positive," I said, and Wilde nodded, shuffling the pages.

"Although the current Lord Whinnypeg was mostly accurate in describing how his father's estate was distributed, there are some fine points he rather glossed over. The Whinnypeg estate, as he said, is under a fee tail, and thus went to him because he is the heir apparent rather than because he is named specifically in the will. In point of fact, the bulk of the estate he inherited similarly went to the late lord's eldest child; the portion specifically for William Whinnypeg was exactly equal to that which his full siblings received—five per-cent. Adam Hayes was entirely honest when he said that his mother's engagement ring from her first marriage was all that he inherited, but it is the matter of Lawrence Quixano that is of the most interest. Our client did not inherit forty per-cent of the estate; rather, a trust was set up with a principal of that value, which may pay out rather generously in perpetuity without ever declining in value. Agnes Areion, as Lord Whinnypeg said, is responsible for the management of the trust. The trust does, however, contain a rather _outré_ provision I had to read over several times before I was satisfied I was reading it correctly."

Wilde paused, and I focused an expectant look upon him. "Are you sure you do not wish to read it yourself?" Wilde asked, "Really, there is little more satisfying than coming to a conclusion on your own."

He was doubtlessly teasing me again, and I shook my head. "And rob you of the opportunity to demonstrate how clever you are?" I asked, "Perish the thought."

Wilde gave a wordless noise of satisfaction and continued his summary. "The trust is set up to devolve to Quixano's own heirs of the body upon his death," Wilde began, and I could not help but interrupt.

"But he is a mule," I blurted, "The odds of him fathering a foal are slim to none."

"Fathering a foal with a mammal he is married to," Wilde corrected, raising a finger, "But the late Lord Whinnypeg foresaw that unhappy eventuality. In the event Quixano dies without legitimate children of his own, the trust devolves to Lord Whinnypeg's own heirs of the body."

"Was he attempting to incentivize Quixano's murder?" I asked, quite unable to keep my incredulity out of my voice, "Why ever would he put in such a provision?"

"You may ask the organizers of tontines the same question," Wilde replied as he carelessly set the facsimile of the will aside, "Certainly, the current Lord Whinnypeg was quite aware of this stipulation of the will—and equally aware of how incriminating it might seem."

I frowned. "It is then William, Edward, and Lisa who stand to profit from Quixano's death," I said slowly, "I do not see any motive for Hayes to be involved."

"Perhaps not," Wilde replied, "There is still much to investigate before—"

He broke off as a heavy set of footfalls signalled the approach of a mammal up the stairs to our flat, rather reminiscent of all the times Inspector Trunkaby had done the same but louder if anything. There was a rap at the door that seemed to make the walls shake. "Mr. Wilde?" a voice that I recognized as that of Aaron White called out.

Wilde looked to me and then shrugged, getting up and beckoning me to follow. "I shall be right there," he called out, and I limped after him as he walked to the door and opened it.

When I had met him, Aaron White had been perhaps the largest mammal I had ever seen, but the scale of his size had been somewhat lost in the opulent dimensions of the hotel. With him standing on our front step, however, the point was driven home. The ceiling of the suite of rooms I split with Wilde was somewhat too low for Inspector Trunkaby to be comfortable, but White must have been taller even than her because it would have been entirely impossible for him to enter no matter how he contorted himself. Indeed, even awkwardly crouched the top of his head was still far above the lintel, and lacking the ability to invite him in I had to stand in the doorway and crane my neck upwards to see his face. "Good morning, Mr. Wilde," White began, "I wished to check in on that poor mule's condition, and I remembered your address from when Dr. Hopps sent a telegram."

"He is doing quite well," Wilde replied, and I felt a touch of pleasure at the elephant's obvious concern.

"Thanks in no small part to your timely assistance," I added, for I had ever felt that credit should be given where it is due and I would never have been able to successfully treat Quixano without the elephant's aid.

"O!" White said, and I could see colour beginning to flush his ears and the rough and wrinkled grey skin of his face, "I did not know you and Mr. Wilde were... That is to say..."

"Roommates," Wilde and I replied, in almost perfect harmony, and White coughed in a matter I suspected was entirely deliberate.

"Of course, of course," White said hastily, "I meant no offense; I have never heard of a fox and a bunny splitting an apartment."

"None taken," Wilde replied nonchalantly, and White cleared his throat.

"Would it be possible for me to see Mr. Quixano?" White asked, "It must be providence that put me in his path, and perhaps him in mine. I have a business opportunity in need of investors that might interest a mule of means such as himself."

"We would be happy to pass along anything you might wish to provide, when we have the opportunity," Wilde said, "But I am afraid I do not know where Quixano is now."

A frown split White's face suddenly and disappeared nearly as quickly, but he nodded. I think I controlled my own reaction somewhat better, for to my knowledge Wilde had deliberately lied to him, and a connection I should have realized earlier occurred to me. Whatever secret the late Lord Whinnypeg held, it seemed to bear some sort of connection to his time in Amareca, and White was himself an Amarecan. That White would appear on our doorstep and ask rather solicitously after Quixano seemed quite suspicious to me indeed, although I could not imagine a motive for the elephant who had seemed entirely well-meaning in my first interaction with him. "I would be quite grateful," White said, although the disappointment in his voice was obvious.

"Think nothing of it," Wilde replied, and before White could turn to leave Wilde added, "Although there is a small favour I should like to ask of you. Have you ever heard of the Whinnypeg family?"

White paused a moment, seemingly thinking, before saying, "The name is not familiar, I am afraid."

"You do not know any mammals from Califurnia or thereabouts, then?" Wilde pressed, and White nodded.

"I've never been further west than Chicago, myself," White said.

"Thank you all the same," Wilde said, and shut the door after saying goodbye to White.

"Do you suppose White may be involved? Is that why you lied to him?" I asked as soon as the sounds of the elephant's heavy treads had been lost to the usual cacophony of traffic on Barker Street.

"I have not discounted the possibility," Wilde said, "But I must correct you, for I did not lie."

"We both well know that Quixano is at Glacier Hospital, or else at this Diognues Club you recommended," I protested, but Wilde shook his head.

"Until I see him at the Diognues Club—where he will likely be, by the by, as I received word this morning that he took my recommendation—I cannot say that I _know_ him to be there, and then only for as long as I myself am in the club. Sophistry, you might say, but you may consider it a valuable lesson in the nature of truth."

"In much the same way Lord Whinnypeg left out certain incriminating truths without lying?" I said, and Wilde smiled.

"Certainly that is one way to consider it," he said, "Now come, let us finish our breakfast before we set out. Our trip to Twenty Paddock Lane shall put us within a few blocks of the flat of Edward Whinnypeg, and I should thereafter like to visit the Diognues Club for a bit of guidance. We also mustn't forget to pay Lisa Whinnypeg and her fiancé a visit, and I should very much like to arrange a talk with Lord Whinnypeg at his estate. There may also be the factory from which bricks were dropped, should the initial assessment from my Irregulars prove to be promising, and we may be well-served by visiting the office of Agnes Areion."

I could only shake my head as I sat back down at the table. "I had rather hoped you might have already determined the solution," I admitted, and Wilde finished chewing a bit of toast before answering.

"I have no doubt that we shall get to the heart of the matter," he said, although I could not have guessed at the time what weight that matter would carry or the brilliant way in which Wilde would see what no one else had.

Still, I cannot deny that it was flattering indeed that Wilde had claimed that _we_ would get to the heart of the matter, and once we had both finished our breakfasts I eagerly set off with him to hail a hansom.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Dr. Hopps claiming that she will not hold Wilde's desire not to share the jam she gave him against him at all, before amending her claim to hardly at all, is something of a reference to _The HMS Pinafore_ , which uses as a joke someone claiming that something never happens, and when pressed on that claim admit that it hardly ever happens. A similar joke appears in _The Pirates of Penzance_ , although reversed so that it's a claim that something is absolutely true, and upon being pressed admitting that it's mostly true. Although by her own admission Dr. Hopps had never attended an operetta before, the quote was quite well known and frequently used as a joke at the time, and having just seen an operetta by Gilbert and Sullivan it might be at the forefront of her mind.

Similarly, when Wilde claims to be teeming with news, he's making a play on some of the lyrics of the Major-General's song, down to being stuck for a rhyme. I figured it'd be the sort of joke that he, at least, would find amusing. In the script for the operetta, the stage directions note that at the end of each verse the Major-General is bothered for a rhyme. How this is handled varies from production to production; I've seen it as the Major-General pausing and thinking to himself before he figures out a rhyme that works for the previous line or getting assistance from the other characters on stage. In his comment on chapter 12, DrummerMax64 described what the production he was a part of did, which was to have the orchestra confer among itself and make a suggestion, which I think is a fun little break of the fourth wall. The method Wilde uses suggests that Hayes used the first option in his performance.

Paste, in the context of jewelry, means that the apparent diamonds are in fact pieces of cut glass with a backing of metallic foil glued to them (hence the name paste). Paste gems were quite popular in the Victorian period, as beyond the fact that glass is easier to come by than diamond it is also easier to work with. Well-made paste gems are difficult to distinguish from diamond, but they have different diffractive properties and of course are not as hard as diamond, making them more prone to scratching. As to the ring itself, although various forms of gold plating were available in the 19th century, they all have flaws for something that sees daily wear. The thin coating of gold can wear off in places, or the metal underneath can start to diffuse through the gold, causing it to become dull.

The Lady Whinnypeg's maiden name is a bit of a joke, not just because horses eat oats but because it allowed the ancestral home her father had to sell be Oates Hall, a reference to the musical group Hall & Oates.

As Dr. Hopps suggests, but does not explain further, an earl is at about the middle of the hierarchy of British peers, above viscounts and barons but below marquesses and dukes. A marchioness is the feminine form of marquess, and a wealthy earl could indeed plausibly marry one. I've previously noted that it was not uncommon in the late 19th century for noble families to be somewhat hard up for money, which the family of the Lady Whinnypeg is an example of.

£10 in 1881 is worth £1,150 ($1,495 or €1,293) today, making it a significant sum of money for something described as a day's work. The expression "cloak and dagger" to mean a situation involving secrecy dates to at least the early 19th century, and likely comes from a translation of the French phrase "de cape et d'épée" or "of cloak and swords" for stories of swashbucklers such as The Three Musketeers.

The trust set up in Quixano's name is certainly unusual, but it would not be impossible for it to stand up to legal scrutiny; Wilde is, after all, summarizing it rather than going through all of the details of how Lord Whinnypeg arranged it. As described, the trust pays out the interest on the principal, so that as long as the way in which it is earning interest is sound it would never run out.

As Dr. Hopps notes, it is extremely rare for a mule or a hinny to be fertile; the expression "When a mule foals" to mean something that won't happen (similarly to "When pigs fly") is derived from this. There are a few substantiated instances, but it's still vanishingly rare. As previously noted in my notes for fee tails, a requirement for an heir of the body does require a legitimate heir rather than just any child.

Tontines are currently illegal in both the US and the UK, although they were briefly popular throughout the 19th century. The way they work is as follows: a large group of people pay into it (in many cases, this was to allow the organizer to quickly raise money), and then receives dividends based on the interest earned by that initial money. As the people who paid in die, the dividends increase in size since they're divided between fewer and fewer people, and when the last investor dies the tontine ends. In some schemes, the last survivor gets a lump sum pay out that can be rather substantial.

Naturally, of course, this kind of incentivizes gaming the system. Having the investor be a young child, for example, increases the odds of them surviving long enough to make it worthwhile. Some tontines had suspiciously low mortality rates year over year, such that it's likely members of the tontine were replaced by someone else claiming to be them when they died.

However, tontines also kind of incentivize the participants to murder each other to increase their own dividends, and this (plus blatant fraud on the part of several organizers of tontines) is one of the reasons tontines were eventually banned.

Califurnia is an obvious pun on California, but I left Chicago untouched because it actually didn't need any changes to work in an animal pun. Two etymologies have been proposed for the city's name; that it is derived from either an Algonquin phrase meaning "The place of the wild onion" or an Ojibwa phrase meaning "At the skunk place."

I've always tried to be careful in my AUs not to use anachronistic expressions, and when I was editing this one I came across a phrase that was surprisingly recent. Originally, I had White saying that the name Whinnypeg did not ring any bells, but in looking into it further I discovered that the expression dates to about the 1930s, significantly after this story is set. It's suggested that the origin of the phrase is in reference to the work of Dr. Pavlov, who did work in conditioned reflexes. The story became widely known in pop culture that Pavlov was able to get dogs to associate the ringing of a bell with getting fed, to the point that they would salivate in anticipation of food if they heard a bell ring without a meal being present. Pavlov may not have actually used a bell in his experiments, but rather a wide range of stimuli, but the bell is what stuck in the public mind.

As always, thanks for reading! I'd appreciate any comments you might have.


	15. Chapter 15

Supposing that Paddock Lane had not been named for a mammal, it looked to have been many years since the street had lived up to its name. Indeed, it was almost claustrophobically lacking in free space, the narrow and winding street running between buildings on either side made to feel smaller by the way in which many of those buildings had jetties that loomed overhead. Even the alleyways between buildings had been reduced to uselessness, multitudes of rodent-sized shops and flats squeezed in such that the alleys could not have been more than three inches wide at the street level.

Paddock Lane was, however, as bustling a street as any I had ever seen in Zootopia, with mice and rats scurrying about underfoot to the little islands of space suitable for them while horses and other larger mammals largely ignored them. I walked at Wilde's side once he had settled our fare and we left the hansom, occasionally stepping behind him when mammals going the other direction squeezed the available space down to nearly nothing, and it was after we passed a used bookstore and a coffee shop that we came upon a building that bore a polished brass "20" near its door.

Twenty Paddock Lane looked much the same as its neighbours, a building of three storeys built to the scale of horses out of unremarkable brick. A few tall and narrow windows broke the face of the building, and while it looked to be quite well-kept there was simply no avoiding its charmless ugliness. The jetties that expanded the upper storeys had clearly been made by a builder who had prioritized functionality completely over any aesthetic quality, for they simply bulged outwards without so much as a single decorative flourish. Besides the brass numbers that identified it, a carefully painted sign had been affixed to the bottom of the overhang above the door that read "PADDOCK LANE PROFESSIONAL OFFICES."

"It is rather unassuming, is it not?" I remarked as we made our way to the door.

Wilde nodded his assent as he pulled the door open for me. "Crime is most often perfectly—and boringly, I should say—mundane," he said, and certainly I could not dispute his words.

Inside, the building was quite as ugly as it had been outside, but also just as well-kept. The well-worn wooden planks of the floor gleamed from being recently oiled, and the little lobby was spotlessly clean. A large sign on the wall near the reception desk identified the names and suite numbers of each of the businesses that made use of the office, of which there were perhaps twenty in all and a half-dozen or so blank spaces that must have surely been unused rooms. The businesses themselves, all of which were identified by small wooden plaques hanging from brass hooks, were of an unremarkable sort, including a dentist and a watchmaker. I had no earthly idea as to which of the suites was the one we wanted, but Wilde tapped a claw against one of the blanks where two lonely hooks did not have a plaque. "Suite 2F," he remarked, "Do you see how the hooks have brighter scrapes along them? There was something hanging here quite recently, but the brass is quite tarnished on the other blanks."

I had not seen the small gleaming traces in the metal of the hooks, but when Wilde pointed it out the difference was obvious indeed. I frowned, and then said, "But how do you suppose the mammals responding to the advertisement knew to go there? There was no suite number identified."

"I have a theory," Wilde said, and then he rang the bell that sat on the reception desk, which did not have a mammal behind it.

For a moment, there was no response, but then my ears could catch the patter of tiny paws, and from the way that Wilde's ears swivelled and turned towards the reception desk a moment later I saw that he had heard the same noise coming from inside of it. After a moment, a trapdoor that had been cunningly concealed in the surface of the desk sprang open, and from it emerged a female mouse of perhaps forty wearing a prim dress. I realized, as she emerged, that the decorations carved into the front of the desk cunningly hid minuscule windows; clearly the desk itself was some elaborate set of living quarters. "Excuse me, madam," Wilde said politely as the little mouse peered up at us, "But do you have a moment to speak about one of your former tenants?"

The mouse sighed, her tiny breast heaving, and she ran one paw across the top of her head. "I shall never rent out by the week again," she said, and her high-pitched voice had a tinge of despair to it, "This has all been more trouble than—"

She broke off suddenly, and her eyes, which were as small and bright as drops of oil, blinked rapidly. "The neither of you is a horse," she said, and while I could not claim I found her minuscule face easy to read I thought it was darkened by a suspicious scowl, "What are you skulking about for, _fox_? And you, rabbit, ought to be careful about the company you keep."

I took a step forward, fully intending to tell the mouse how entirely she had misjudged the pair of us, but Wilde gently blocked my progress with a slight nudge of one paw. If he took offense at the positively vitriolic spin that the mouse put on his species, he gave no sign of it, although when he answered his own words had an obsequiously polite tinge to them I found quite unnatural. "I am not, as you say, skulking about, madam," he said, "I am Nicholas Wilde, a detective, and my companion Dr. Hopps is assisting me in an investigation. I believe your former tenant to be a criminal who has taken advantage of both your good nature and your charming business."

I did not think the mouse had either, but she did not seem to notice the insincerity of Wilde's words as she huffed. "A criminal?" she cried, and her voice seemed actually to get shriller, "What did that horse do?"

Wilde inclined his head and lowered his voice. "Attempted murder, among other crimes," he all but breathed, and he let the words hang for a moment in which the mouse's eyes widened before he broke the silence, his tone briskly business-like.

"But I am sorry to waste your time, madam; we shall be off your property straight away. Come along, Hopps."

He had not even turned halfway around before the mouse held out one paw. "Wait, wait!" she said, "Do you really mean he tried to kill someone?"

There was a ghoulish sort of horrified fascination in her voice, but for my part I could not help but be impressed out how rapidly and with seemingly no effort Wilde had caught her attention in a manner that overcame her obvious dislike for foxes. It was an incredible display of how his inborn talent for deception could be used to society's benefit, and when Wilde replied it was to continue his efforts. "Certainly," he said, "Your help could be quite valuable, if you have the time, Mrs...?"

"Fields," she replied.

"Well, Mrs. Fields, I can tell you that the horse who rented out your suite is a mammal of poor character indeed, one who has thus far eluded the best efforts of the police. Your testimony may very well be the only hope of capturing the criminal," Wilde said, quite solemnly.

Mrs. Fields seemed to puff up at his words. "I should have suspected him from the start!" she said, "But you know how business is these days. I could not afford to deny so generous an offer."

"Of course," Wilde said, "How did this offer come about?"

"It was three weeks ago," Mrs. Fields said, "A horse came in and offered to rent out one of my suites by the week, rather than by the month as I usually do, and said he would pay the equivalent of twice my normal rate."

Three weeks ago would have put the date as quite a bit before Quixano had checked into the hotel, and I wondered at the long-term planning of whoever had arranged the whole affair. "That is quite generous indeed," Wilde said, and while I am sure he caught the same kernel of interest that I had, he continued his line of questioning, "Was there anything unusual about this horse's appearance?"

Mrs. Fields thought on it for a moment. "I do business with many horses," she began slowly, "As of course must be obvious from where my building is."

Indeed, it had seemed as though most of the foot traffic on Paddock Lane was in fact horses, and Wilde and I made virtually identical noises of agreement while waiting for her to continue. "I would say that I have seen horses of every sort, but he still stood out, though I cannot quite say why. There was something off about him."

"Off about him how?" I ventured, and Mrs. Fields was silent again as she tried to figure out how to put her thoughts into words.

"He looked normal enough," she said at last, "On the tall side, but not unusually so. A bit thinner than usual, but he was enough of a dandy that I did not think it odd. He had chestnut-coloured fur with a white marking like a star on his muzzle and a blond mane and tail. It was his voice, I think, that was strange. He was ever so polite, but every time we talked he sounded as though he had the grippe."

"Did he give you a name or say what his occupation was?" Wilde asked, and Mrs. Fields nodded.

"He called himself August Sorrel and he said he worked for the Foreign Office."

"Indeed," Wilde replied, and I thought I saw an amused upturn of his lips, "Did Mr. Sorrel say what business the Foreign Office had renting one of your suites?"

"Never," she said, shaking her head, "Only that it was of the utmost importance to the government. He bade me direct horses who came inquiring after his advertisement to his suite, but he insisted the sign I posted have only his name."

"Would I be right to say that, until the twenty-third, you saw Mr. Sorrel only when he paid his rent?" Wilde asked.

"Why, yes," Mrs. Fields said, "He never spent any time here at all until then. He would say only that he was still making arrangements, but he hardly left his suite from the twenty-fourth through the twenty-seventh. On the twenty-seventh, he said he would no longer need the suite, paid up his bill, and I have not seen him since. Good riddance, I say, for you would not believe how many horses stopped by in response to his advertisement, even now that it is no longer in the papers. Why, my family could hardly pass Christmas without that blasted bell being rung."

She glared at the service bell on the desktop before turning his attention back to Wilde. "So who was Mr. Sorrel really?" she asked, and before he answered Wilde looked surreptitiously back and forth before leaning in until his muzzle was inches away from her face.

"That is a matter for the Home Office," he whispered so quietly that even I could barely hear it, and as he leaned back he touched a finger to his lips.

"Now, could we inspect the suite?" Wilde asked, clapping his paws together, and Mrs. Fields replied almost immediately.

"Of course, though there is little enough there to see. It's been cleaned out already."

If Wilde was disappointed, he gave no sign of it. Mrs. Fields scurried back off into the reception desk and came back with a key nearly as large as she was, which Wilde took from her with great delicacy, and in short order we made our way up a flight of stairs that would have been rather narrow for a horse and had soon arrived at suite 2F. As Mrs. Fields had said, there seemed to be little to see, although Wilde still made a thorough inspection. As he moved about the suite himself, I tried to deduce what I could on my own, though I came up completely short. It was not an overly large room, and the floor was of the same polished wooden planks as that of the lobby. The walls looked to have been painted fairly recently, and a single narrow window let in a bit of natural light, which could be supplemented by a pair of gas lamps near the door. The only furniture was a single desk and chair, both sized to a horse or similar mammal, and I could see absolutely nothing else of interest. There were no scraps of paper or bloodstains upon the floor, nor even so much as an unusual gouge in the walls. It looked, quite simply, like what I supposed it to be—an office that had been thoroughly cleaned in anticipation of being let again.

Wilde, however, made an exceptionally thorough examination of the room, inspecting the floor and walls closely and occasionally muttering to himself in a low voice. He carefully went through all the drawers of the desk but did not seem to find anything, and at long last he stood up and straightened his suit jacket. "I suppose we ought to give Mrs. Fields her key back," he said, although I thought he sounded somewhat distracted, "It is time for us to speak with Edward Whinnypeg."

* * *

Wilde was in a contemplative silence as we left Mrs. Fields's building, his drooping tail moving slowly from side to side as I followed him for the few blocks it took to reach the address that the current Lord Whinnypeg had provided for his younger brother. His concentration seemed focused so totally inward that I resisted the urge to ask him what he had made of our interview with the mouse or his inspection of the suite the mystery stallion had used as part of his scheme. "Her description matched the one Mr. White provided quite neatly, wouldn't you say?" Wilde said suddenly, _apropos_ of nothing.

The same thought had occurred to me, and I nodded my agreement. "It certainly sounded like the same stallion," I said, and Wilde sighed.

"Yes, the same stallion," he murmured very nearly under his breath, before adding in a louder tone, "A horse who claimed to work in the Foreign Office."

"A queer lie, I thought," I said, "One that seemed very likely to draw attention and stick in the memory. Would it have not been easier to claim to need actors or labourers, and pick horses from among them?"

"It would have been easier indeed," Wilde replied, agreeably enough, "But remembering the task the stallions were asked to perform, I think it served our would-be murderer well enough. Each horse must have needed to seem, in appearance and behaviour, like the sort of mammal who could reasonably check into a luxury hotel. But what then of this mysterious blond horse who two separate mammals now have said to be somewhat off-putting?"

"I cannot say," I replied, for I really was quite baffled.

From our last conversation with Aaron White I had become somewhat suspicious of the elephant, but I found it difficult to reconcile what we had just heard with his own testimony if he was guilty. Perhaps he had wished to throw suspicion on a co-conspirator to remove it from himself, but surely he must have realized that if we found the blond stallion that the horse would turn on him. Unless, that is, the stallion had already been eliminated, or if White had dealt with him so carefully that even his co-conspirator could provide no evidence to entrap the elephant. "I am afraid I do not have the same luxury," Wilde said, "It is not in my nature to give up on a case."

His words struck me as very nearly despondent in tone, and I saw then the burden he carried. Over the course of the few months I had known him, it was a rare case indeed he could not solve, but he had always seemed to move onto the next with no further care. I thought I saw, though, the depths to which those failures rankled, and it struck me—not for the first time—how truly and desperately alone he was. If he did fail, it did not seem he had anyone in the world who could help him shoulder his disappointment, except perhaps for me.

"Nor is it in mine," I said, quite firmly, and feeling emboldened I reached out and gave his paw a brief squeeze.

Wilde seemed rather surprised at the gesture, his ears going straight up and his tail straight back, but he was my friend and I could not bear to see him so melancholy. "Whatever it takes, I shall ever be at your side should you need me," I said.

I meant those words when I said them, and I mean them even now as I write down the events that transpired. My reward at the moment was one I recall from time to time, for it was rare indeed to see Wilde smile without any sort of artifice. "Ah, Dr. Hopps," he said at last, "You may see if you mean your words a year or five hence."

His smile changed its quality in a way I am not sure I can fully describe, for without the wealth of knowledge I have accumulated concerning his habits and moods I do not think anyone else would have noticed how it seemed to turn inward on itself. "I do not make promises I do not intend to keep," I said, "Even should I be very old and completely lame, I shall not forget."

Wilde paused mid-step, and turned to face me as I also stopped. We stood there on a street quite a bit wider than Paddock Lane and not nearly as busy, the snow slushy beneath our feet and our breath entirely visible in the air's winter chill. Wilde reached down and gently pulled on my watch chain, smoothly catching the watch he had given me when it came free of my pocket. Wilde turned it so that the closed lid, with its beautiful engraving of the solar system, was facing me, and he tapped one finger against the image of the sun at the centre. "A fixed point, then?" he said.

"A fixed point," I agreed.

"You may live to regret that promise," Wilde said cheerfully, his usual mask of good humour back on his face as he palmed the watch into my paw.

He kept his own paw there over mine until I took my watch, the warm roughness of his paw pads a curious contrast to the cold smoothness of the watch's case. "Perhaps," I said, "But you are my friend, and I should be a poor friend indeed otherwise."

"And I should be a poor friend to abuse that promise," Wilde replied as he turned and started walking again, but he seemed to be holding his tail somewhat higher and it was most certainly moving from side to side faster than it had been.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Paddock Lane, as described, takes advantage of a technique that was quite popular in the medieval period for timber-framed buildings where the upper floor or floors extend beyond the first floor, allowing them to be larger without obstructing the street. Such construction was also not uncommon for 19th century London, which did have plenty of parts with extremely narrow streets. I figure that it's in one of the older parts of the city, and if there ever was an actual paddock that gave the street its name it's long gone.

Dentists were an established profession by 1881, and in the UK there were laws in place to prevent just anyone from calling themselves a dentist and performing dental work. Watchmakers were much more common in the 19th century than they are now, as the late 19th century is well before modern battery powered quartz watches. Indeed, watches at the time would all be spring-powered, and that spring would need to be wound either by hand or (in extremely rare and expensive watches) by a mechanism that automatically wound the watch using the movement of the wearer as a power source. Self-winding mechanical watches didn't become common until the 1920s, when wristwatches supplanted pocket watches. As watches in the 19th century were purely mechanical and were not made using modern materials or manufacturing techniques, they required not infrequent service, thus helping to keep watchmakers employed.

Mrs. Fields is named after her species; she is a wood mouse, which is also sometimes called a field mouse.

A dandy, in the parlance of late 19th century Britain, was a man who paid particular care to his appearance, typically in trying to emulate the appearance of an aristocrat. It's a word with an even earlier history, as it's also referenced in the song "Yankee Doodle Dandy," the lyrics of which mock the American colonists of the late 18th century. At that time, a "macaroni" or "maccaroni" was a man who dressed in a truly outlandish style beyond normal fashion, with a ridiculously affected manner of speech and behaviour. Thus, in "Yankee Doodle Dandy" when the lyrics refer to the eponymous dandy sticking a feather in his hat and calling it macaroni, it's essentially saying that Americans are so poor and uncultured that doing something so simple as that would elevate them to the height of fashion in the eyes of their peers. The word "Yankee" has been used as a slang term for an American since at least the 1750s, and "Doodle" is likely derived from "dudel" (meaning to play music poorly) or "Dödel" (meaning a fool). All in all, Yankee Doodle Dandy is therefore not a very complimentary song.

Sorrel is another name for the brown coat color that is common in horses. The grippe was a name that was commonly used in the 19th century for the flu, so Mrs. Fields is saying that he always sounded like he was sick. The Foreign Office would be the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, the part of the UK government responsible for overseeing British relations with other countries. The head is the Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs, usually called simply the Foreign Secretary, and is usually considered one of the four most powerful members of the Cabinet behind the Prime Minister, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and the Home Secretary.

The Home Office is a ministry department of the UK's government, its most notable responsibilities being security and law enforcement. Although MI5, which is part of the Home Office, did not exist until the early 20th century, Wilde is still implying that his investigation involves the upper echelons of the British government. It would be at least strictly true that, since it involves the police, it does technically involve the Home Office. As to whether it goes higher than that, well, I'll refrain from spoilers.

When Dr. Hopps promises to still assist Wilde even if she is old and lame, she is of course using the word lame to mean unable to walk, not in the sense of being pathetic.

Referencing the sun as a fixed point is congruent with the general understanding of the solar system at the time. Although we now know that our sun is not at the center of the universe—and that the universe does not in fact have a center—it was still relatively common in the late 19th century for people to assume that the sun was at the center of the universe. Referencing Dr. Hopps herself as a fixed point is a nod to _His Last Bow_ , where Sherlock fondly refers to Watson as a fixed point in a changing time. The story is chronologically the last Sherlock Holmes story in Doyle's canon, being set shortly before the start of WWI. It was actually published in 1917, while the war was still going on, and is widely interpreted to have been intended as a propaganda piece to boost the morale of the British public. It's an unusual Sherlock Holmes story in two respects; it's narrated in the third person rather than the typical first person, and it doesn't have a central mystery to it, being instead more of a spy thriller.

This chapter, incidentally, is the first in which Wilde verbally says that Dr. Hopps is his friend, although it has hopefully been clear before this point that that is the case.

As always, thanks for reading! If you're so inclined, I'd love to know what you thought!


	16. Chapter 16

"What a ramshackle hovel, wouldn't you say?" Wilde remarked as we came into eyesight of Edward Whinnypeg's residence, "Truly, he must feel ashamed to live in such destitution."

The sarcasm in Wilde's voice was thick and obvious, for to describe Edward Whinnypeg's home as a flat would do nothing to come even close to adequately describing the reality of the building. At some point in the past the building Edward Whinnypeg lived in had been a mansion, four storeys tall and nearly half a block long, with a neatly fenced in garden and beautiful ornamentation around the windows and the dramatic main entrance. In the more recent past, perhaps in the last ten or twenty years by my judgment due to the tangles of ivy climbing the walls, the mansion had been partially converted into a club with perhaps a sixth of the original space left as a private residence. Of course, even a sixth of such a grand building meant that Edward Whinnypeg likely had a dozen or more rooms across the four storeys of his portion of the building, and the smallest of them was likely larger than the entire suite I split with Wilde. Although a new façade had been built for the private residence—which betrayed what I presumed to be the particularly gaudy tastes of either a former resident or Edward Whinnypeg himself—all the redecorating in the world could not hide that the club and the residence had once been whole.

I made a noise of agreement as I craned my neck upwards to take in the top of the building; unlike many of the other buildings I had seen in Zootopia, which had smaller upper storeys to mix occupancy of mammals of varying size, each storey had been built to the scale of a horse. "Do you suppose he will agree to meet with us?" I asked.

I was not in the least bit intimidated by the tall fence of wrought iron surrounding the snow-covered garden, nor by the even taller gate that was the only way to the path to the door, but I did not see a reason for the younger Whinnypeg to so much as allow us past the gate unless Wilde pulled a similar ruse to the one he had applied to the elder Whinnypeg. Wilde did not seem especially concerned, however, and simply chuckled, walking away from the entrance of Whinnypeg's residence and towards the club's. "The club shall serve quite as well, I should think," Wilde replied, "Certainly, it is not a coincidence that Edward Whinnypeg chose to make his residence in such a place and he is by all accounts a rather gregarious fellow."

I was about to protest that we would first have to gain entry to the club when I saw the sign that hung over the door. In large gilt letters it read "THE PAX BESTIANNICA CLUB," underneath which in slightly smaller letters it read "OPEN TO ALL LOYAL SUBJECTS." Although I had, much to my dismay, encountered some few small-minded mammals in the army who had voiced their opinion that predators were as incapable of loyalty to the queen as a rifle—and for the same reason—I had never tolerated such talk and considered it utter rubbish. It was therefore pleasing to my eye that, after Wilde pulled open the door for me and gestured for me to enter, he was able to follow without so much as a reaction from the bull immediately inside.

It seemed to me quite likely that the founders of the Pax Bestiannica Club had been motivated more by the financial possibilities of providing a club for the otherwise unclubbable, but to my eye the club seemed to live up to its name. Indeed, the cavernous common room that Wilde and I stood in had nearly a score of mammals in it, no two of them the same species, and I counted at least five predators. The room itself was quite lovely, with a plush maroon carpet under our feet and dark wood panelling on the walls interrupted only by doors and brass gaslight fixtures. There was a large bar at one end of the room, from which the pleasant smells of coffee and tea mingled, but otherwise the space was dominated by an assortment of overstuffed chairs of a truly astonishing variety of sizes with accompanying low tables set with the day's newspapers.

I followed after Wilde, noting how his sharp eyes beneath their seemingly heavy lids darted about the room, seeming to take in everything even as he lazily strolled through the vast space. Most of the mammals in the room were absorbed by their reading or by low conversation, and none of them paid any mind to either Wilde or me. I was sure, however, that Wilde saw what I did—despite the diversity of the club's patrons, there was not a single horse among them, and I therefore followed as he made his way toward the stairs to the second level.

However, our luck at passing the main entrance was not to be repeated, for a young aardwolf in the uniform of a page blocked our passage. "The upper floors are for members only," he said, rather apologetically, and I supposed that there was quite a difference between a club being open to all and being truly free.

Wilde did not seem especially put out, and there was a trace of a smile upon his face as he addressed the young mammal. "Mr. Edward Whinnypeg shall be expecting me," he said, "I am the fox and she is the bunny that Inspector Lupuson no doubt told him would make a social call."

The aardwolf stared upwards at Wilde, who was wearing his most winning smile, and then his gaze flickered briefly over to my face before he gave a bow. "I shall let him know at once," he said, and then he hurried up the stairs.

Another page, this one a slightly older coyote, took his place and stared at Wilde and I with naked interest as we stepped a respectable distance away from the stairs to wait. "Did you have a telegram from Lupuson?" I asked, "Or did he stop by while I was asleep?"

I was, I must confess, somewhat puzzled as to how Wilde had been so confident in his statement to the aardwolf, although after some sort of notice from the inspector my next thought was that he was attempting a bluff relying on Edward Whinnypeg's curiosity. "Nothing of the sort," Wilde replied, leaning somewhat casually against the wall, "I have neither seen nor had any word from Lupuson since you last saw him, but I know him to have visited this very building."

Wilde took out his pipe and began filling it, seeming quite unconcerned, but my own curiosity got the better of me. "You cannot say it so simply and not explain yourself," I said, "How do you know?"

"There is nothing to it," Wilde replied as he flicked a match to life and lit his pipe, "I can say, quite confidently, that at least Inspector Lupuson and Constable Timberlake entered Edward Whinnypeg's home, for in the snow outside there are the rather perfectly preserved footprints of wolves. Now, identifying Lupuson positively by footprint is quite simple, for I noted when we met him at the hotel that he had recently lost a claw on his left foot—the poor devil—and until it regrows his step is rather distinctive. As for Timberlake, although some of the prints match up to what I would expect from a she-wolf of her height and build, there were also the remains of the rare brand of cheroot she favours in the snow, which makes me confident indeed that she accompanied the good inspector. Further, I noted those same footprints heading away from the club, which suggests that there is some internal door connecting Whinnypeg's residence to the club. It is no great stretch of deduction to figure that it means they must have spoken with Whinnypeg—likely in the club at his own insistence—and Lupuson knows I am pursuing the matter myself. His sense of professional courtesy, to say nothing of his honour, would demand him to tell Edward Whinnypeg to expect me to come calling."

"Marvellous!" I cried, impressed as always at the manner in which Wilde could not only note so many obscure details but also pull them together.

"If you say so," Wilde said, and while he spoke modestly there was a self-satisfied gleam in his eyes at my praise, "But it looks as though the mammal himself has appeared."

I turned my attention to the stairs, hearing the sounds of a mammal descending, and a moment later a horse who could have only been Edward Whinnypeg came into view. In appearance, there could be no doubt that he was the full brother of William Whinnypeg and the half-brother of Adam Hayes, for his coloration was somewhere between the two. His coat of fur did not have the metallic gold glossiness of his half-brother nor the chestnut gleam of the current Lord Whinnypeg, but was still a rich shade of unbroken brown. His mane and tail were the same sleek black as those of his elder brother, and had been braided in a similar fashion. Unlike any of his brothers, and here I include Lawrence Quixano, his eyes were brilliantly blue instead of brown, but just like them he had no blaze upon his muzzle. I was somewhat disappointed that he completely failed to match the description of the horse that Mr. White and Mrs. Fields had both given, but I did not think anyone, even an elephant, would have described Edward Whinnypeg as being slim. He was nearly as muscular as Lawrence Quixano, and the evidence of his strength was apparent even as it was covered by his elegant morning coat.

Although Edward Whinnypeg did not hold the title his elder brother did, his appearance was if anything even more opulent. His feet had been shod in aluminium shoes covered in engravings of such exquisite detail that I could not possibly guess at their cost. His morning coat and trousers were both made of the finest cloth and pressed to knife-edge sharpness, and his grey silk cravat was held to shape with a diamond-studded platinum stickpin in the shape of a horseshoe. Like me, he used a cane to support a limp, but whereas mine was a relatively simple thing his was made of polished ebony with a gold grip.

"Why, you must be the one and only Mr. Nicholas Wilde," Whinnypeg said as he stretched out an arm in greeting, "And you must be Dr. Hopps. It is a pleasure to meet the both of you."

His voice was booming in the fashion of an inveterate storyteller, full of warmth and good humour, and the expression on his long muzzle seemed entirely genuine in his pleasure. It was my estimation that, so far as horses go, he would have been considered quite handsome, and if he did not have the beautiful coloration of his half-brother the actor his features were no less perfectly formed. "Is that so?" Wilde asked, a smile touching his lips as he shook Whinnypeg's proffered hoof, "Many mammals are sorry to see me coming even before they know I am a detective."

Whinnypeg laughed perhaps a touch longer and louder than such a joke deserved, but he shook his head. "Nonsense!" he cried, "As I told that fine wolf chap—Lupuson, was it?—I have nothing to hide. Besides, in my army days, some of the finest mammals I served with were predators. Have you ever played cards against a wolf?"

Both Wilde and I shook our heads, and Whinnypeg chuckled again. "That is the true test of a tell, eh? That is the reason I turned towards club ownership rather than gaming, you know. Against a mammal who can smell a change in mood, you must be a fine player indeed. Once I told them to stop letting me win, the rotters about took me for all I was worth!"

He laughed again, seeming somewhat rueful about those loses, and greeted me just as warmly as he had Wilde. After our shake ended, he paused a moment. "I see we share an ailment," he said, gesturing with his cane at my own, "A farming accident, perhaps?"

"I was in the Sixty-Sixth Regiment at the Battle of Markhorasan," I said, trying not to allow my displeasure at the assumption he had made on the basis of my species to colour my words, "I took a bullet to the leg."

The jovial gleam in Edward Whinnypeg's eyes darkled at my words. "O my," he said, "I am sorry to have overlooked your service, which I am sure the empire was fortunate to have. I am afraid I cannot claim anything nearly as heroic as your own efforts—I shattered my leg playing rugby and it has never been the same."

He seemed genuinely embarrassed as he spoke, his ears tucking back but not before I could see the insides flushing with colour. Wilde, I noted, looked positively amused at seeing Whinnypeg put on the spot, his smile seeming a degree smugger than normal, but I like to think I have never been a vindictive mammal and tried to accept the apology gracefully. "Think nothing of it," I said, "I was in fact raised on a farm."

Whinnypeg quickly recovered, and gestured Wilde and I to follow him up the stairs. "I have a private room where we may talk," he said, changing the topic, and we were soon in a room a bit more luxurious than the common area at the entrance.

It had a large window overlooking the street which let in large amounts of natural light, and while the carpet and the walls were the same colour as the room downstairs all of the furniture was more elaborately ornamented. A large table dominated the room, set with chairs to allow mammals of various sizes to be of a height with each other, and in the corner of the room was a fine spirit case and a beautiful gasogene far more elaborate than the one in the flat Wilde and I shared, the mesh of silver wire surrounding the globes gleaming wonderfully in the light.

I also noted that the room had two doors, and suspected that the other led into Whinnypeg's private residence, for so far as I could estimate where we were in the building I believed the wall it was on marked the border. Once we had all taken seats that suited us, Edward Whinnypeg turned to Wilde. "The inspector told me you were investigating the attempted murder of my half-brother, but little else," he said, "Please, ask me anything that would be of assistance."

"I suppose we may begin with the obvious," Wilde replied, "Where were you on the night of the twenty-seventh?"

Whinnypeg smiled broadly, seeming to recall a fond memory. "As I told the inspector, in this very club. You see, there are five different clubs that I have a finger in, so to speak. However, when New Year's Eve comes, I may only be at one of them at the stroke of midnight. It is a vexing problem, but my solution has been simple—I arranged fabulous parties at _all_ the clubs in the lead up, such that I may personally show the members at each a good time."

"And the twenty-seventh was the occasion of a party here?" Wilde asked, to which Whinnypeg nodded.

"It was a grand affair," he said, "The sort of revelry that has already had mammals clamouring to join before the party to take place on New Year's Eve. I may have been, as my dear older brother so frequently tells me, a poor soldier—particularly as compared to you I am sure, Dr. Hopps—but I do not think there is anyone in Zootopia better suited to making parties memorable."

"I have heard of your methods," Wilde replied, somewhat dryly, and I myself could think of more than a few less than flattering accounts of the less controllable parties Whinnypeg had held.

Whinnypeg simply chuckled. "Indeed!" he said, "I have made some enemies in polite society, perhaps, but what of it? I cannot tell you how glad I am that I did not inherit my father's title; being an earl seems like quite a bore."

"Was your older brother one of those enemies?" Wilde asked, and Whinnypeg sighed.

"I should hope not, but William has ever been far too straitlaced for his own good. I invited him to all the New Year's Eve parties I arranged, you know, but he turned them all down."

"And what of your other siblings?" Wilde said.

"I did invite them all, but my sister was the only one to accept. Adam sent his regrets, but said he had a performance or some such. I never heard anything from Lawrence. Strange though it is to think of him as a sibling I did not wish to exclude him."

"That was most thoughtful of you," Wilde replied, "Did you have any other contact with Lawrence Quixano after the reading of the will?"

Whinnypeg shook his head. "No, not at all. I don't think he particularly cared for any of us, and who could blame him?"

"Who indeed?" Wilde murmured, and then he was silent a moment.

"Was your sister present at the party on the twenty-seventh?" I asked, breaking that silence.

"Why yes, of course," Whinnypeg replied, "Her and that fiancé of hers. The party was rather crowded, but I know I saw them. Her costume was rather distinctive, you see."

"Her costume?" I echoed, and Whinnypeg nodded.

"It was a masquerade ball," he said, "Lisa and her fiancé had the most wonderful feathered masks, rather like swans."

"Did you talk to them?" I pressed eagerly, "Are you sure it was them?"

Whinnypeg shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, I may have indulged in spirits more than I ought to," he said, "But I would know my sister's voice anywhere."

It was not quite a confirmation, and I turned the possibility over in my mind. Although I was sure that Edward Whinnypeg had been the life of the party, mask or no mask, could not his sister have hired someone to take her place or else slipped out in the night after first making sure her brother remembered speaking with her? It seemed to me a most promising lead, but Wilde's voice was quite neutral as he asked his next question. "Did Inspector Lupuson tell you how the murder attempts against Lawrence Quixano went?"

"He did, yes. Rather terrible, I am sure. First poison and then a rifle. He asked about that rifle, too, come to think of it. It sounded like the one that belonged to my father, but Adam Hayes has it now. Or had it, if it is the same rifle."

"Is that so?" Wilde asked, "Lord Whinnypeg said your father gave it to you when you joined the army."

Wilde spoke his lie quite smoothly, for it had been Adam Hayes who had told us the story of the rifle, not William Whinnypeg, but Edward Whinnypeg simply answered the question.

"Well, he did, yes," Whinnypeg replied, "But I lost it in a game of chance with Adam Hayes. Nine or ten months ago, I think. I have told the story more than once or twice to mammals who think about wagering something of personal value. Adam even offered to sell it back to me, but I simply couldn't—I lost it fair and square, and I could do with the reminder."

"A shame," Wilde replied, his tone sympathetic, "It sounded quite valuable. Do you know where it was made?"

Edward Whinnypeg shrugged. "I suppose it was worth a few pounds, but my father never told me where he purchased it. He had it on display in his study for as long as I can remember, so I suppose it was a few decades old."

"Adam Hayes reported the rifle stolen a few days ago," Wilde said, "You don't suppose he might have lied to the police, do you?"

"You don't mean you think Adam tried killing Lawrence, do you?" Whinnypeg asked, sounding quite shocked, "I play cards with him all the time and I would swear he was no murderer. Besides, I think he had a play on the twenty-seventh. He couldn't, he simply couldn't."

"Perhaps he did not pull the trigger, but he may have arranged events," Wilde suggested.

Whinnypeg sighed again. "Well..." he began, and after a pause continued, "I suppose he may have been envious of Lawrence. He inherited a fortune, but poor Adam got nothing more than a ring. He was quite cross when the will was read, I can tell you that."

"That a mule should inherit ten million pounds must have been quite the slap in the face," Wilde replied, agreeably enough.

"It was my father's money, and it was not as though I needed it," Whinnypeg replied, answering in such a way that gave me little doubt that he had caught Wilde's insinuation, "I do quite well for myself, as you can see. I have no idea how Adam is managing, though."

"He would also inherit nothing should Lawrence Quixano die," Wilde said, "As compared to you and your full siblings, who each stand to gain a fortune."

"I would never resort to murder," Whinnypeg protested.

His eyes had narrowed and his ears had gone back, the horse seeming quite displeased about the implied accusation. "It is simply a matter of covering all the angles," Wilde replied, rather nonchalantly, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Whinnypeg."

At Wilde's words, Whinnypeg's demeanour relaxed, the tension draining out of him. "You are an interesting fellow, Mr. Wilde," he said at last, "I should like to play you in a game of baccarat one day. I have heard foxes are supposed to be exceptionally clever at it."

Wilde shrugged, favouring Whinnypeg with a slight smile. "I prefer games of strategy to those of chance," he said, "But we may see if we get the opportunity."

As we made our goodbyes and left the club, Wilde's parting words to Edward Whinnypeg returned to my mind. "Do you suppose investigation is a game of strategy or one of chance?" I asked, and Wilde considered the question for a moment before answering.

"I should like to say strategy is of the foremost importance, but I cannot foresee every possibility. Edward Whinnypeg embarrassing himself while attempting to show you sympathy for your injury, for example," Wilde replied, and he smiled a touch.

"He is not the first to make such an assumption," I said, and Wilde nodded.

"But I would suppose even before your injury, there were those who assumed you to be a farmer," he said thoughtfully, his tail swinging slowly from side to side.

"The uniform was something of a proof against it," I said, "But it did happen, yes."

"Perhaps had your career lasted longer, your reputation would have preceded you," Wilde suggested.

"Perhaps," I agreed, "But had I never taken that bullet..."

I did not finish the thought immediately, for my head filled with images of what might have been. I may be so bold as to say that I had been an excellent army doctor, and the career path I had considered when first I had joined ran through my head. My thoughts for the future I had lost had been heavy indeed immediately upon my dismissal from the service, but it occurred to me then it that moment that it had been months since I had considered the matter. "We never would have met," I finished, the words coming as the realization struck me.

I could not say whether I would have been happier had my military career continued for I had not experienced it, but I thought of what I _did_ have. Wilde was a remarkable friend of a sort I had never had before, and there was no doubt in my mind that I had assisted him in doing a fair amount of good solving the crimes that no one else could. When I tried to think of the work which I had once found so fulfilling, my thoughts returned instead to the cases I had accompanied him on. "I should not call being shot good fortune," Wilde remarked, breaking my train of thought, "But I am glad to have made your acquaintance."

I smiled. "As am I," I said, and I cannot express how truly I meant those words.

* * *

Author's Notes:

As Dr. Hopps notes, Wilde is being extremely sarcastic when he describes the home of Edward Whinnypeg. The word "ramshackle," although obviously inaccurate, is appropriate to the period, as it originated as an alternate form to ransackled, an archaic form of ransacked. By the middle of the 19th century, its meaning had started to drift from a place that had been thoroughly looted to a place that was poorly built or near collapse, and by 1881 its usage was entirely modern.

The name of the club being the Pax Bestiannica Club is a pun on the Latin phrase _Pax Britannica_ , which in English means "British Peace." The phrase was used in the 19th and early 20th century to describe the role that the British Empire played in world affairs; for many years after the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo, they were the dominant player on the world stage until the industrialization of Germany, Japan, and the United States turned those countries into challengers. Bestiannica suggests at last the name of the country that this version of Zootopia is set in; for future reference it is the United Kingdom of Great Bestian and Elkland. Bestian is derived from bestial, and Elkland, filling in for Ireland, is named after the (now extinct) Irish Elk. Of note is that this story is set before the Irish War of Independence; the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland has only had its modern name since 1927, with "Northern" being added in front of Ireland to indicate the part of Ireland that remained part of the UK.

A club that is theoretically open to anyone British would have been rare indeed in the late 19th century, so Hopps's suppositions about the motives of the founders are not without merit.

The word "unclubbable" was likely coined by Samuel Johnson, the author of the 1775 _Dictionary of the English Language_ , and meant a person who did not have the character to join a club, typically due to being unsociable but potentially also due to their temperament or their social standing.

Cheroots are a kind of cigar that were especially popular in the 19th century because they could be rolled by machine rather than by hand, which made them quite cheap. As is also evidenced by Wilde casually smoking indoors, smoking was an extremely common habit at the time, and there were a huge variety of brands available for loose tobacco, cigarettes, and cigars. Wilde's confidence in identifying a cigar by its butt is something he shares with the original Sherlock Holmes, whose expertise in tobacco ash came into play in _A Study in Scarlet, The Boscombe Valley Mystery,_ and _The Hound of the Baskervilles._

A morning coat is very similar to what we would consider a suit today; it's a single-breasted suit jacket, although since it traditionally has knee-length tails it's quite a bit longer than a modern suit jacket. Somewhat amusingly, considering that Edward Whinnypeg is himself a horse, the morning coat came about in our world as a semi-formal piece of clothing appropriate for a gentleman riding a horse, since the more formal frock coat would crease and bunch up if worn while on a horse. As the 19th century went on it became more acceptable to wear morning coats as part of formal dress for events during the day, but Edward Whinnypeg dressing in such a fashion is not unusual.

Although aluminum is commonly used nowadays to make horseshoes due to it being significantly lighter than iron, the metal was quite expensive in the 19th century. Indeed, in 1884, three years after this story was set, the world's largest single casting of aluminum took place for the cap of the Washington Monument. Although rather unimpressive by modern standards at a mere 100 ounces (2.86 kilograms), at the time it was as expensive as pure silver. Going back further, Napoleon III was said to have had a set of aluminum utensils in the 1850s reserved for the most honored of guests; people not quite as honored had to make do with utensils made of mere solid gold. Improvements in methods of extracting aluminum drove the price down over the following decades, and by the middle of the 20th century any thoughts of aluminum as a precious metal were entirely forgotten.

Edward's cravat, and the stickpin used to hold it in place, would have been quite fashionable for a member of the upper class, and expensive silk cravats were typically worn with morning coats at the time. Cravats generally need some kind of pin to help them hold their shape, and especially luxurious ones could indeed be made out of platinum and studded with diamonds. The heads of stickpins were a frequent point of ornamentation, and while a horse wearing a stickpin with a horseshoe-shaped head is perhaps a touch on the nose it wasn't an uncommon choice for a gambler.

Edward's use of the word rotters to describe the wolves who cleaned him out at cards would be a pretty modern bit of slang for someone objectionable, as its first recorded use was in 1879. Wolves do indeed have a very good sense of smell, and their ability to detect subtle changes could make them formidable opponents at card games in the world of Zootopia. Since it's been previously established in this series that wolves are much more likely to be enlisted personnel rather than officers, Edward's claim that they initially let him win shouldn't be too unbelievable. As an officer, it would certainly be in his power to take pretty harsh retribution against them if he wanted to.

In the original works by Doyle, Dr. Watson served first in the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers before joining the 66th (Berkshire) Regiment of Foot, the company he was part of during the Battle of Maiwand during the Second Anglo-Afghan War. Here, Dr. Hopps leaves out her previous service with the fusiliers, and Markhorosan is a pun on the markhor, a species of goat native to Afghanistan, and Greater Khorosan, a historical region of Persia that included part of present day Afghanistan.

The real life Battle of Maiwand was a lopsided defeat for the British and their Indian troops; the Afghan army was nearly ten times their size but suffered about three times as many casualties in their victory. It was fought on July 27, 1880 and was one of the pivotal battles; the war ended shortly afterwards with a treaty that gave the British authority on foreign affairs in Afghanistan and permitting the local tribes to maintain self-governance. The only objective that the British army failed to achieve was to maintain control over Kabul, the occupation of which had been what set off the war.

"Darkle" is an archaic word that means something grows dim or gloomy that dates to about the year 1800 and eventually faded out of common use after the end of the 19th century. Besides being period appropriate, it's also something of a nod to the character Roland Deschain of Gilead from Stephen King's Dark Tower series; he is said to both darkle and tinct ("tinct" meaning to change color or tint).

A gasogene was essentially the Victorian equivalent of a Sodastream. It consists of two glass globes linked together, the lower one containing water and the upper one containing a mixture of tartaric acid and sodium bicarbonate. The chemicals in the upper chamber produce carbon dioxide, and a series of tubes forces the gas into the water, which can then be dispensed as carbonated water. They were typically enclosed in wire mesh since they had something of a tendency to explode, but they were a common fixture for preparing drinks. Indeed, 221B Baker Street is noted to have one in _A Scandal in Bohemia_ , and here Dr. Hopps notes that the one Edward Whinnypeg owns is quite a bit nicer than the one she and Wilde have.

Masquerade Balls date to at least the 15th century, and were relatively popular in the 19th century. Elaborate masks were indeed a key part of them, as in many cases the intent was to allow partygoers to remain as anonymous as they chose to be.

Although as a card game baccarat does naturally have a random element to it, it is not purely a game of chance, so Wilde is being somewhat insulting by the way he refers to Edward's favorite game.

As always, thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought.


	17. Chapter 17

"I must warn you," Wilde said, "The mammal who runs the Diognues Club is a bit peculiar in his ways."

I had ridden with Wilde in a hansom we caught a short distance from Edward Whinnypeg's home, and while the journey had not passed in silence Wilde and I had not spoken of the case at all. Instead, he had drawn me into a conversation about the teaching position I had taken up, and we had spent the time it took the horse pulling the hansom to get us through the mid-day traffic and across the city in pleasantly idle conversation. Although Wilde freely confessed as to never having taught a class himself, I could not help but envy his disarming nature; I supposed that he would be capable of charming about any mammal. I was not sure what sort of teacher I would prove to be, and with my first day approaching in less than a week's time I was quite glad to have both his advice and his reassurances.

It was only once we had left the hansom that Wilde spoke again of the investigation, and I looked up at him and considered his warning. Considering the other mammals I had met who Wilde associated with had their own peculiarities—such as the fully-grown fennec fox who pretended to be a kit for the purposes of begging—I did not take his words lightly. "Peculiar in what fashion?" I asked.

Wilde paused a moment before responding as we trudged down the street. The Diognues Club, it transpired, was located in one of the more _nouveau riche_ neighbourhoods of Zootopia where the _parvenu_ had erected manors, clubs, and shops of truly outrageous proportions that could not be explained solely by the size of the residents. Indeed, at least half of the well-dressed mammals we passed by as we walked were no taller than Wilde himself, and some of the houses put the mansion Edward Whinnypeg's residence was in to shame. I must have looked particularly like a simple country bunny, for I could not help but stare up in wonder at the heights to which the buildings soared even as I waited for Wilde's answer. "The Diognues Club is a club for the sort of mammal for whom the stuffy formality of most other clubs does not appeal," he said at last, "The founder is, as you might expect, somewhat prone to eccentricities, but he has been a valuable aid to me from time to time due to his brilliant mind."

"Is he a detective such as you?" I asked, "For I have never heard of the Diognues Club nor any other consulting detective beside yourself. Should he be cleverer than you are?"

Wilde scoffed at my words, although I saw he did not take any real offense at my suggestion that there might be a mammal in the world who could exceed his own gifts; his slight smile did not lose any of its warmth and his eyes were merry. "You wound me, Hopps," he said, placing one paw upon his chest as he sighed dramatically, "He is clever in his own way, I shall tell you that; while my meagre skill may be in the analysis of facts, his is in their accumulation. If his talents exceed my own, he has never felt the need to demonstrate it, for he is quite lazy and perfectly content to while away his time in his club."

"If?" I repeated, and Wilde's smile widened a degree.

"As I said, if," Wilde replied with perfect cheer, "But you shall meet him soon enough and may judge for yourself."

We had reached our destination, and even among the ostentatious buildings surrounding it the Diognues Club stood out, for it had a queer design of a sort I had never before seen. It was three storeys tall, all of brick, and while most of the building looked almost blandly modern, the rear of it was unusual indeed. I could see that a part of the roof was an enormous structure of glass and iron, as were parts of the walls immediately below. However, the panes of glass that formed what was unquestionably a greenhouse only began about thirty feet above street level, and there were no windows at all anywhere lower. It formed a striking contrast with the portion not beneath that great span of glass that was built normally, including windows, and the vast expanse of unbroken brick was consequently ugly indeed. I supposed that the greenhouse must be all one enormous enclosed area, but the lack of ground level windows still struck me as unusual; even a camelopard would not be able to peer out while in the greenhouse.

But then, I was a doctor and not an architect, and despite the odd design the little bits of greenery I could see if I craned my neck still made me long for spring. I could not stand and wait for long, however, as Wilde made for the front door and I hastened to follow, and shortly we were inside. The interior was, I must say, one of the most beautifully exotic I had ever seen; unlike the nearly austere design of the Jade Dragon Club, the interior of the Diognues Club was a riot of harmonious colour and patterns that would have not been out of place in the most elaborate of mosques in Bharalt. White marble lined the walls and screens of marble helped serve to divide the space, which had been worked into floral patterns of exquisite beauty and fineness that allowed the divisions to not be oppressive. Mosaics of abstract patterns in shades of blue and green lent the lobby further beauty, including an incredible circular pattern upon the floor that contained details smaller even than a grain of rice and appeared perfectly symmetrical.

Nearly the instant we entered, and I am sure before my expression of awe at the craft that had gone into forming the interior had fled my face, a female jackal dressed in a sari of a brilliant—although unornamented—shade of orange approached nearly silently and bowed to my companion. "Are you here to see the master, Mr. Wilde?" she asked in a low and smoky voice, and he nodded.

Before she could glide off, however, Wilde spoke. "In the visitor's room, if I may impose."

The jackal's eyes, which were a gold as rich as the metal and had been emphasized with kohl, flickered briefly from Wilde to me before she bowed again. "As you wish," she said, "I shall retrieve you once he is..."

Once again, her eyes turned toward me, and I thought I saw a sort of knowing smirk pull up one corner of her mouth before she finished her sentence. "Prepared to receive you," the jackal said, and then she glided off.

Her coat of brown fur and her orange sari made her stand out vividly against the whites, blues, and greens of the lobby, but at last she vanished from sight after passing behind a screen. "Have I missed something?" I asked Wilde in a low tone once I was sure she was gone.

"Nothing of any import," Wilde replied, and it was a wait of many minutes before the jackal at last returned and guided us through a maze of screens and corridors before she stopped at a door.

She knocked at it once, opened it, and then bowed low, gesturing Wilde and I inside and shutting it after us. I was not entirely sure what I had expected of the mammal who Wilde had described, but the mammal whose room we entered was still quite outside anything I could have imagined. He was a yak of perhaps thirty or forty with spectacularly dishevelled fur so long it all but obscured his features, the bright gleam of his dark eyes nearly lost. He wore a somewhat grubby blue dressing gown despite it being somewhat after noon, paired with an elaborately embroidered smoking cap of green silk with a gold tassel set so crookedly atop his head that I thought it would have slid off had it not been stopped by one of his great curving horns.

He was sitting cross-legged in a wicker chair that was somewhat overlarge despite his sizeable paunch, and his stillness was almost eerie; he did not react as Wilde and I entered, nor did he move at all even as we approached. I might have thought him dead if it were not for the horrible droning noise he produced, which was impressive only in his ability to hold so dismal a tone for so long. The visitor's room was a fair size, made somewhat cosy by the bookshelves that lined the walls and were covered with an array of books as eclectic as Wilde's own collection, although they did appear to be better ordered. Otherwise, besides the chair the yak sat in, the only furnishings were a pair of matching chairs and a table of polished oak inlaid with flecks of blue stone that positively glowed in the mid-day light that streamed through the windows.

When we were standing directly in front of the yak, he suddenly stopped his vocalization and I finally saw an indication of movement as he regarded me with what felt like infinite scrutiny, his eyes slowing moving from the tips of my ears to the bottoms of my feet. He paid Wilde no mind and simply settled back into his chair with a slight frown touching his face. "You," he said at last, "Are not a vixen."

He spoke his words ponderously, as though they were of great sagacity, but I could only stare back at him. That I was not a vixen was a fact that should have been blatantly obvious to just about any mammal with so much as a fraction of sight, and while his eyes were almost completely obscured by his shaggy fur I had seen them take me in.

"I am not," I said, my confusion at his pronouncement preventing me from formulating anything less prosaic.

I had no idea what he meant by his statement; did it imply that when last Wilde had paid the yak a visit it had been in the company of a vixen? Had the knowing look the jackal given me been related to that? Before I could pursue my line of thought any further, Wilde spoke. "Indeed she is not," Wilde agreed cheerfully, "Dr. Hopps, meet Mr. Yaxley."

The yak nodded slowly and extended one arm. "How do you do?" I asked, as politely as I could while we shook.

"It is quite simple," Yaxley replied after he had let go of my paw, "It is only the method of loci."

Once more I could do little more than stare at him in response to what seemed to me a complete _non sequitur_ , and Yaxley turned to Wilde. "She is not a vixen," he said, as though the fact—which he had already stated—could have escaped Wilde's notice.

It seemed almost a veiled insult, though Yaxley said it blandly enough, but Wilde chuckled. "It would appear not," he said, and added in a lower voice I doubted the yak could hear, "I did warn you."

Wilde had indeed warned me that the mammal who ran the club was an unusual fellow, but to me that was an inadequate description. Yaxley seemed half-mad, and I could not tell if he was simply a step ahead of me on the stairs of thought or on an entirely different staircase. "Yaxley has an extraordinary memory," Wilde continued in a normal voice, "If he does not remember everything he has ever seen, read, or heard, it is near enough to everything as to make little difference."

Yaxley waved an arm, the gesture quite graceless and almost clumsy. "I would not go so far as that," he said, and was then silent a long moment.

Wilde smiled. "He is also quite modest," he added, and then he took one of the empty chairs.

I took the other, and almost the instant I sat down Yaxley spoke again. "Why am I wearing this?" he asked, and curiosity coloured his voice as he plucked at a sleeve of his dressing gown.

"You know I—" he began, but he never got the chance to finish his thought, which I could not possibly imagine the end to, for how could a mammal not know the reason for wearing the clothes they chose to?

"I am here to-day concerning Lawrence Quixano, who you have kindly sheltered in your club," Wilde interrupted smoothly, seeming to have no difficulty following the yak's peculiar logic, "As for meeting here instead of in your charming greenhouse, I did not wish to cause Dr. Hopps—or myself—any undue discomfort. It is quite cold outside, you see."

Wilde's words struck me as perhaps a touch glib, but I did appreciate his thoughtfulness. Although I was not wearing the abominable dress he had loaned me some months ago when I had visited the Rain-Forest District, I was sure my clothes would soak in the humidity of a greenhouse all the same and become horribly unpleasant once we left the club and winter's chill froze them. Even with my winter coat of fur I was still reduced from my long illness and susceptible to the cold, and although it would have been pleasant to see the fresh green of living plants I did not mind missing the opportunity. "O," Yaxley said, nodding ponderously, "I understand."

"Is Mr. Quixano quite well?" I ventured, breaking another silence before it could stretch on interminably.

"He is what he is," Yaxley replied, speaking the tautology as if it were some remarkable piece of wisdom, "Do you wish to see him?"

"In a moment," Wilde replied, "For now, there is a maker's mark on an Amarecan air rifle I have been unable to identify myself. The letter 'A' above a 'G,' and both surrounded by a horseshoe with the ends pointing upwards. The rifle itself is of Amarecan chestnut and—"

"Eureka!" Yaxley interrupted, his tone triumphant.

The yak settled back into his chair, apparently considering the matter answered. "In Califurnia?" Wilde asked, and Yaxley nodded.

I realized then that Eureka must also be the name of a city, and I could see the excitement on Wilde's features grow. His eyes seemed positively to sparkle and I suspected that had he not been seated I would have seen his tail wag. "It is the mark of Adelheid Groningen," Yaxley said, "She apprenticed in New Yak from 1833 to 1836 before moving to Califurnia in 1839. Her earliest air rifles were made in 1850 in Eureka, where she still resides, although she has not made any weapons since 1865 and has instead become a silversmith."

Yaxley said it all quite casually as though he were reading from a reference book and not reciting it from memory. There was absolutely no hesitation to his words, and I supposed that he really did have a peerless memory.

"That should be quite enough for me to go on," Wilde replied, "You have my thanks, Yaxley."

The yak nodded. "The servant can take you to Mr. Quixano," he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the door we had entered through.

"It was nice to meet you, Mr. Yaxley," I said as I stood, for his words were obviously a dismissal.

"And you as well, Dr. Judith Hopps," he said, and I paused mid-turn.

"How did you know my first name?" I asked, "Have you spoken with Wilde about me before?"

I saw no other way for the yak to know my name, for neither Wilde nor I had mentioned it and had I met a mammal as distinctive as Yaxley before he would have surely stuck out in my mind. I had not yet even attempted to publish a work about my adventures with Wilde, and I was not so arrogant as to assume that I was myself particularly notable to the general public as a retired military doctor. "I have neither seen nor written to Yaxley in a year or so," Wilde said, and I thought I saw a trace of curiosity on his own face about how the yak had managed the feat.

"You were listed on the passenger manifest of the _HMS Aureusant_ in January of 1881," Yaxley replied, and once more he spoke as if he had not just demonstrated an incredible feat of recall.

"That is so," I replied, once more astounded, and Yaxley nodded.

I had never even mentioned to Wilde the name of the troop carrier on which I had returned following the first stage of my convalescence from my war injury, but Yaxley appeared to have plucked it out of his memory as casually as another mammal might give the name of their favourite sibling.

"Goodbye," he said, and his arms went out as he once more began to produce that droning note, which shook me out of my surprise and bade me to take my leave.

I fell in step at Wilde's side as we followed the jackal through another twisting maze of corridors, although I would have sworn that we had travelled the same hallway more than once. It struck me as somewhat peculiar that we had not seen so much as another member of the club, and I wondered if our seemingly circuitous route was to allow them their privacy. Wilde, however, quite easily pushed my idle thoughts aside as he spoke. "I think I shall find greater success with my next telegram," he said, "I believe I have very nearly unravelled a portion of this whole affair, though I cannot yet speculate upon its importance."

I supposed that knowing where the elder Lord Whinnypeg had obtained the air rifle used in the attempted murder of his illegitimate son was of no small importance if there was some dark secret of his time in Amareca, but I confess I did not then see any possible connection, and I told Wilde as much. "What is it you have divined?" I asked, "I am still quite in the dark."

"I should not like to bias your own thinking," Wilde replied, "I would ask only that you have patience a while longer."

He spoke the words sincerely enough, and I grudgingly nodded. With that, we were both silent as we followed the jackal up a flight of stairs and down yet another corridor before stopping in front of a door. "Mr. Quixano's private room," she said, and as when she had let us into the visitor's room she knocked once, opened the door, bowed low as she gestured Wilde and I inside, and then closed it after us.

The room itself appeared quite a lot like an elegant hotel room, and the furnishings matched the general scheme of the rest of the club's interior although the walls were not made of marble. The bed did, however, have a beautiful white quilt with an elaborate blue starburst pattern upon it, and beneath that quilt was the form of Lawrence Quixano. I was pleased to see him looking greatly improved; although he still had a slight palsy of his limbs and appeared rather haggard, his eyes were bright and stayed focused, having gone up from a newspaper to Wilde and me upon our entrance. "Dr. Hopps!" he cried, "Mr. Wilde! Are you close to solving this?"

I thought I heard a touch of desperation in his voice, which was only emphasized when he spoke again before either Wilde or I could answer. "I fear I am going mad in here with no work to keep my hooves busy. I looked out the hall once and I would swear I saw..."

He coughed suddenly, his ears flushing red, and he hastily finished. "Never mind that," he said, "Please tell me you are close."

I was suddenly immensely curious as to what sort of vision—perhaps a side-effect of the atropine he had been dosed with—would be so embarrassing to him, but it seemed extremely impolite to ask. "I think it a matter of only a few days now," Wilde replied.

"Days?" Quixano repeated wearily, and he sighed as he collapsed from the sitting position he had been in to lay fully on his back, "This is a wonderful club, Mr. Wilde, but it is a jail if I cannot leave."

I am sure there are many mammals who would have loved to spend days in a luxurious club, but I could sympathize with Quixano's feelings. Although the hospital in which I had been treated was nowhere near as accommodating, following my war injury I myself had been out of sorts with nothing to occupy my time. "Would it help if you had your tools?" I asked, "Perhaps there is something you could work on without leaving the club."

"A capital suggestion, Dr. Hopps," Wilde said agreeably, "I believe their greenhouse always requires constant repairs if crude ironmongery would catch your fancy."

Quixano's ears seemed to perk at Wilde's words. "It would be something, I suppose," he said, and sighed deeply.

"Now, there are a few questions I should like to ask you," Wilde said, "When you met William Whinnypeg, where did those meetings occur?"

"At a coffee house he owned, or claimed to," Quixano replied.

"The one near the river?" Wilde asked, and Quixano nodded.

"I see," Wilde murmured, and I supposed that my companion must have caught a reference to the coffee house in the deceased Lord Whinnypeg's will, "And never at the Whinnypeg estate?"

"I haven't been back there ever since..." Quixano began, his gruff voice cracking.

He did not have to finish for either Wilde or I to know that he meant after his mother's death, and Wilde nodded. "And have you had any contact with the other Whinnypegs?" he asked.

"Edward sent me an invite to some party of his, but William is the only one I've seen since my father died," Quixano replied, and I was not surprised that he had no difficulty whatsoever speaking of his father's death in comparison to that of his mother.

"What about Adam Hayes?" I asked, and Quixano frowned.

"The actor chap?" he asked, "I saw him when the will was read, same as the others. Didn't pay him any mind though, did I?"

"I would suppose not," Wilde replied cheerfully although the question was obviously rhetorical, "But we have used enough of your time."

Quixano's arm shot up suddenly and he gripped Wilde near the wrist. "Please, Mr. Wilde," he said, and while his voice was as rough as ever I thought I heard something I had not previously heard from the blunt mule, "I don't want to be afraid anymore."

It was the same sort of vulnerability that a kit—or a foal, I supposed—might show after a nightmare, that same desire for an adult to speak soothing words and put the fears of the unknown dangers lurking in the shadows to rest. I wondered then how much of the mule's snappishness had been a cover for his very reasonable fear of being murdered, and I felt my own heart soften towards him. For Wilde's part, I do not believe I had ever seen him with so serious an expression on his face. "I understand," Wilde said quietly, and Quixano's grip loosened and his arm fell back to his side.

"I suppose you would, fox," Quixano said, and the pause after he spoke the words seemed to stretch into eternity.

At long last, Wilde broke the spell that seemed to have come over the three of us by clapping his paws together. "We shall see about getting you some ironwork to mend," he said, "Come along, Hopps."

We made our goodbyes before leaving, and I do not think I shall ever forget the expression upon Quixano's face as he watched our departure, for I have never before—and have never since—seen such an awful combination of hope and despair.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Finnick briefly appeared in "A Study in Gold" and did indeed dress like a child there. The term "nouveau riche," which is French for "new rich," dates to at least 1796. "Parvenu" is a related term as a noun, dating to the same time period, that comes from the French verb "parvenir," which means to arrive; the intent is to describe the newly rich as having recently arrived at their wealth. London of the 19th century had a fair amount of new money as the ongoing economic developments created wealth for people who were not of noble birth. In many cases, the newly rich preferred to purchase the land and houses of the more destitute members of nobility, but there were of course only so many of those to go around.

The building that is widely considered the first skyscraper, the Home Insurance Building, opened in 1885 in Chicago. It had a metal frame using an early method of the technique still used today in building skyscrapers. It was also only 10 stories tall, so what Dr. Hopps considers particularly tall in 1881 would probably be more than a little underwhelming to a modern audience.

Dr. Hopps noting that she is a doctor and not an architect is a reference to a long-running gag on _Star Trek_ , where across the different series various doctors have protested that they are not, among other things, a bricklayer, an escalator, a counter-insurgent, a doorstop, a bartender, or a voyeur.

Speaking of voyeurs, it was my intention in this chapter to subtly imply that the Diognues Club is a naturist club in this setting too, and the odd construction of the greenhouse is to prevent peeping and give the place at least a semblance of respectability. The first known nudist club was founded in 1891, so the Diognues Club is slightly ahead of the curve. In 1881, in the UK, public nudity was not accepted; by the 1870s it was considered inappropriate to swim in the nude after a law was passed in 1860 to ban it. It therefore makes sense for this setting that the Diognues Club is somewhat circumspect, although you may draw your own conclusions about Wilde's intentions on insisting on meeting in the visitor's room rather than one of the club rooms. It is true that many London clubs, even to this day, do have strict dress codes, although Wilde does leave out precisely what he means by saying that the Diognues Club has laxer requirements than the formality that other clubs require.

As previously mentioned in my author's notes for chapter 4, I chose Bharalt as the name of this setting's equivalent of India. Dr. Watson briefly served in India before his service in Afghanistan, so I thought it made sense for Dr. Hopps to recognize the décor of the Diognues Club as being inspired by India. The overall design was intended to evoke the style of the Mystic Spring Oasis from the movie as well as some elements of the Taj Mahal. Kohl is a sort of eyeliner that has been used for thousands of years, and is traditionally made by finely grinding up the mineral stibnite, so its appearance here as a cosmetic is not anachronistic.

A dressing gown is, in the parlance of the 19th century, basically a bathrobe. A smoking hat is very similar to a fez; they were popular in the 19th century as a way for men to keep their hair from smelling like smoke when they were lounging about in the privacy of their own home.

Yaxley is, of course, based on Yax, who only seems to have one name in the movie. I thought Yaxley was a good choice for a name since it's an actual English surname derived from the many places named Yaxley or variants such as Yoakley. He also serves as kind of a counterpart to Mycroft Holmes in the original stories, although he's obviously not related to Wilde. I figured Yax's seemingly perfect memory worked well for the role. In the original stories, Sherlock will freely admit that Mycroft is smarter than he is, albeit too lazy to actually go out and do investigations. I imagine Wilde has perhaps a touch too much pride to do the same—if Yax is smarter, he almost certainly would not tell Dr. Hopps.

He seems to confuse Dr. Hopps's polite greeting with an inquiry about his incredible memory, answering the question of how he keep so many facts in his head with an actual memorization technique. Although the modern BBC Sherlock does reference Sherlock's "mind palace," it did not create the technique; in the original Sherlock story _A Study in Scarlet_ he references his memory as being like an attic that's been carefully organized.

Yaxley's answer is referring back to the first known description of the technique from _Rhetorica ad Herennium_ , which is commonly attributed to Cicero or Cornificius and calls the technique the method of loci. The method of loci involves memorizing the layout of something, such as a house or a room, and then associating the information one wants to recall with features of that thing, breaking it down into manageable chunks. Retrieving the information then involves imagining going through the area. It's a technique that some people can use to astounding effect; Clemens Mayer, a memorization champion, was able to memorize 1,040 random numbers in only half an hour by linking the numbers in his mind through a journey through his house.

American chestnut trees are no longer as common as they once were, as a blight ravaged the population in the early part of the 20th century. In the late 19th century, however, as today, the wood of American chestnut trees was generally considered the finest chestnut in all the world. It's a dense, evenly grained hardwood that is highly resistant to rotting and the trees themselves grew quickly.

There is a real world Eureka, California, and it was named after Archimedes's famous exclamation, which translates to "I have found it" in English. There are actually a lot of cities and towns in the US named Eureka; in the case of Eureka, California, it was so named because of gold prospectors. Eureka in the 1850s was a more important city for the supply lines of miners in the Sierras than it was a site of actual gold mining, and its economy eventually shifted to focus on lumber production.

The gunsmith Adelheid Groningen takes her last name from the Dutch horse breed, the Groningen, and Adelheid is a German name, from which the name Heidi was formed first as a nickname for women named Adelheid and then as a name in its own right.

In the original stories by Doyle, Dr. Watson returned from the war aboard the _HMS Orontes_. "Orontes" is the Greek form of "auruuant," an Iranian male name that means "mighty." Here I've used the _HMS Aureusant_ as a pun on "auruuant" and "aureus" after the golden jackal, a species that is native to Iran and has the scientific name _Canis aureus_. Based on the Battle of Markhorasan occurring in late July of 1880, the date of January of 1881 shows that it took Dr. Hopps about five months to recover enough from her injury and subsequent illness to return to the UK, and she then spent about nine months in Bunny Burrows before moving to Zootopia around September of 1881. As of this story, she's known Wilde for about three months.

At the time this story is set, the industrial production of steel was making the metal more economically viable, but iron was still used in many circumstances because it was still cheaper and the expense of mild steel wasn't worth it for many applications. The iron that forms the greenhouse would presumably be painted (probably with something containing lead) to give some protection against corrosion, but it would still require a fair amount of maintenance and replacement.

As always, thanks for reading! If you're so inclined to comment, I'd love to hear from you.


	18. Chapter 18

"You know, Hopps," Wilde said casually, "I am feeling a touch peckish. Would you care to stop for a coffee and a pastry?"

We had taken a hansom to the outer bank of the River Hammes, about three miles west of the Ratenbach Falls, and gotten off almost immediately after crossing the Zootopia Bridge. Although my knowledge of Zootopia was not nearly as extensive as Wilde's, who seemed to hold a map of the entire city in his head down to the train schedules, I knew by the address of Lisa Whinnypeg's practice that we had stopped at least half a mile short of it. Had I not held faith in Wilde's methods of investigation I might have protested the walk, for a strong and biting wind had picked up, making my ears flutter with each gust and bringing the slightly pungent smell of the river to my nose.

"At the coffee house owned by Lord Whinnypeg, perchance?" I asked even as I stepped carefully to avoid slipping on the ice-slicked cobbles of the street.

"I must be growing predictable," Wilde replied, and the slightly mournful expression that crossed his muzzle was, I am sure, pure theatre.

"You are still full of surprises, Wilde," I said, "I doubt I could ever grow bored of you."

Wilde chuckled, a small smile touching his face. "We shall see about that," he said, "Why, once you start teaching you may not be able to pull yourself away from the classroom."

"It is only a single class a semester," I said, "Certainly it will not monopolize my attention."

"As long as I remain interesting enough?" he asked casually, "For if that is the case, it is the criminal class of Zootopia you have a quarrel with, not me."

I laughed, supposing that in his own idiosyncratic way Wilde was saying that he would miss me once I had classes to teach, exams to invigilate, and papers to score and I had less time to accompany him on his cases. "I shall inform all the criminals I meet that they must endeavour to meet a higher standard lest their misdeeds be too simple for you to enjoy resolving," I said.

"So long as I have your word," he said, nodding gravely.

With the benefit of hindsight, as I am now months into my teaching career as I write these words, I can say that I do miss having quite so much time to accompany Wilde and it is always a thrill to start a case with him. Even, I must add, when he felt the need to burst into my classroom mid-lecture and make demands of my time and medical expertise in a particularly gruesome murder. That, however, is a story for another time, and so I shall return to the chronicling of the curious case of Lawrence Quixano.

It was a short walk from the bridge to the coffee house; I could still hear the rush of the river and the high-pitched cries of mudlarks as we entered the establishment, which was a splendid but perfectly practical establishment. The fragrant smell of coffee, tea, and freshly baked pastries mingled in a way that made my mouth water, and the interior was just as cheery as the smell. The Outer Bank Coffee House, as the neat sign over the door identified it to be, was small for a shop built to the scale of mammals quite a bit taller than Wilde or me, but it was immaculately clean. A number of wooden tables and chairs, none of which quite matched but almost did, filled most of the shop, scattered about seemingly at random. There was a large central counter, behind which there were a number of coal fires burning with a truly fantastic array of percolators and vacuum coffee makers set in them. Besides the main seating area there was also what seemed to be a narrow kitchen that I supposed to be the source of the fantastic pastries that were arranged with almost military precision on a series of shelves to the side of the counter. Otherwise, there were a few private rooms toward the back of the shop, and I supposed that it would be one of those that the current Lord Whinnypeg and Lawrence Quixano would have used when they met to talk.

The coffee house was relatively quiet, with perhaps four or five small groups of mammals scattered about the cosy space, reading newspapers or engaging in lively conversation over their drinks. The proprietress of the establishment, an elderly horse mare whose reddish fur had turned dull with age where it had not gone completely white around her muzzle. Still, despite her slightly stooped appearance and the somewhat delicate care that went into her every movement, her eyes were bright and her croaking voice was quite lively as she greeted Wilde and me. After ordering drinks, Wilde leaned against the slightly too-tall counter and dropped his voice to a near conspiratorial whisper. "I hear, madam, that your Eggles cakes are the best in the city," he said, and the mare about inflated with pride.

"In the city, nothing," she said, waving one hoof dismissively, "In the entire country. I am from Eggles, you know, and my grand-mammy taught me the recipe her grand-mammy taught her. You will never have a better Eggles cake."

"Then certainly we must have two Eggles cakes as well as our drinks," Wilde said, taking up the pastries from the display.

The mare gave Wilde the total for the drinks and the pastries, and as he dug the coins out of his purse he paused, seeming to have just been struck with a thought. "You know, I do believe I have heard Lord Whinnypeg himself—Earl William Whinnypeg, that is—favours your Eggles cakes above all others."

The mare smiled as Wilde slid the coins across the counters. "Of course he does! He's a sharp lad, that one, comes in all the time. He owns this place, you see, and trusts me to run it right, same as his father did nigh on thirty years ago."

"Well it is certainly a charming shop, isn't it, Dr. Hopps?" Wilde said, turning briefly to look at me.

For my part I had been somewhat amazed at how effortlessly Wilde was pumping the old mare for information, seemingly without her even realizing it, and I hastily agreed. "I have never been in a nicer coffee house," I said, and if it was perhaps an exaggeration it was not by much.

"O, you're too kind, the both of you," she replied, favouring me with a grin devoid of quite a few teeth, "But I can't thank the Whinnypegs enough. His lordship has the same gift his father had, rest his soul, to see what a business is, and they're the only ones. None of the other Whinnypegs even stop by; no head for business, probably. It's not just the books at the end of the month, you know, but the community. The mammals."

"The Eggles cakes," Wilde added agreeably, taking a bite out of his, "Which really are the best I have ever had. You simply must try yours, Dr. Hopps."

I strongly suspect he had emphasized his reaction perhaps more than he would have otherwise, but after I tasted my own I had to agree it truly was a spectacular pastry. The sweet and somewhat tart filling was a perfect counterpoint to the delicate and flaky crust, and while I am sure my expression was indication enough of my approval I quickly added, "It is wonderful."

"O you," the mare replied, but she seemed unable to keep a smile off her face as she bustled about preparing our drinks despite her severe limp, "You're a doctor, are you?"

"Yes, I am," I replied, wondering if Wilde had emphasized my title for a particular reason when he spoke to me in front of her.

"A noble profession," she said approvingly, "Lord Whinnypeg's sister is a doctor, you know. He's quite proud of her even though..."

She paused briefly to look around before continuing in a low whisper, "They don't see eye to eye on politics, you see."

"O dear," Wilde replied, his tone suggesting that she had said something shocking, "It is always a shame when politics split a family apart."

"She'll see he's right, soon enough," the mare said knowingly as she gave over our cups, "He'll be Prime Minister someday, you'll see if he isn't."

"Well I am sure Lord Whinnypeg would not forget his favourite coffee house even when that day comes," Wilde said, "Thank you madam."

Once we had made our goodbyes, which were full of fulsome praise, I followed Wilde to a table set near the private rooms, which had curtains of red velvet rather than doors. As Wilde took a delicate sip of his coffee, I could not restrain myself. "However did you know about her Eggles cakes?" I asked.

Wilde smiled. "Is that the portion of my questioning you choose to question?" he said.

"I followed along the rest of it well enough," I said, "But I confess I am at a loss as to how you knew which point to apply pressure to."

I found it truly remarkable how Wilde had unerringly hit upon what it took to make the proprietress inclined to speak; his use of his devious nature was always surprising. "It was quite simple," he said, "You see, Eggles cakes are not the only pastries she serves, but they were undoubtedly the freshest on display. Moreover, of the eight other mammals in this shop eating a pastry, all of whom have the air of being regulars, six of them have Eggles cakes. It is therefore no great deduction to conclude that the Eggles cakes sell better than any of the other pastries, particularly considering the unmistakable note of currant that permeates the air that speaks to significant production. That she would be proud of her baking—and I am sure it is her baking from the manner in which her apron and fur is speckled with flour, sugar, and currant juice—was no great leap, although I confess I did not expect her to volunteer quite so much information."

"You may pretend you did, should you wish," I said, and Wilde chuckled.

"Perish the thought," he said, "Now, I am sure you see the significance of what this charming coffee house's owner has told us."

"I believe I have," I said, "None of the other Whinnypegs frequented this establishment, which must have been where Lord Whinnypeg suggested to Mr. Quixano to check into the Chateau Talpen. Which is not to say that some other mammal may not have eavesdropped, such as Giuseppe Cavallo or the mysterious August Sorrel. The private rooms do not seem particularly soundproof."

"Indeed not," Wilde replied, "Now, which of those rooms would you say Lord Whinnypeg favours?"

There were three private rooms, which were really more honestly booths, all of them with the curtains open to show that they contained nothing more than a table and some chairs. I considered Wilde's question carefully, trying to see the rooms as he might. "The largest of the three," I said, for in an instant the answer came to me, which I believe anyone would have seen as obvious in retrospect.

The three rooms were not identical in size; one was a fair amount larger than the rest, and the chairs inside it were nicer than the ones in the other rooms, which lacked similar plush cushioning. Above each of the three rooms were signs that read "Reserved" and to the right side of each set of curtains were hooks upon which hung wooden plaques that read "Do Not Disturb." Having already seen Wilde's method for deducing which of the suites in the professional office building August Sorrel had rented, a similar observation showed me that the plaque that hung to the side of the largest room showed the greatest signs of use, with the vanish somewhat worn away from what I supposed was significant handling. "I agree," Wilde said, nodding, "We shall have to walk past once we finish our drinks."

A matter of moments later we did as Wilde had suggested. After first looking into the room, his head slowly moving up and down and from side to side as he seemed to inspect everything, he gently lifted the "Do Not Disturb" sign back from the peg it hung on, revealing the reason it had been handled so frequently—the other side of the plaque read "Ready For Service." Clearly, it was intended to be used as a means by which mammals within the private rooms could indicate that they wished their conversation to remain private even from the proprietress or any other wait staff she might have. A thoughtful frown crossed Wilde's face as he pressed down with one foot against the wooden planks of the floor near the private room, which uttered a low and creaky groan. "It would be difficult for a mammal to eavesdrop unnoticed," I observed, "Unless they were to weigh less even than you."

Indeed, when I trod on the floor nearest the room myself they uttered the same sound, and I would estimate that I did not weigh even a third of what Wilde did. "Or you," Wilde replied, a small smile upon his face, "But I believe I have seen all I need to see."

After we left the coffee house we continued on foot towards the practice of Lisa Whinnypeg, which was less than half a block away. Her practice and her residence, as it transpired, were actually one and the same; the small lower floor that had gilt letters painted on the window reading "Whinnypeg & Shoemaker" in great curving text over the words "General Practitioners" was beneath a modestly sized flat, particularly in comparison to where Edward Whinnypeg lived. I supposed it completely appropriate for an as yet unmarried mare living alone before her wedding, although it would likely become unsuitable once she shared the dwelling. The entire building, although it looked to be fifty or more years old, was well-kept, and while there was plentiful evidence of the brickwork being redone in spots there was none of the crumbling that would indicate obvious neglect. It blended in perfectly well with the neighbouring buildings, which all seemed to be at most two storeys tall and occupied by a combination of professional offices, such as solicitors and architects, and flats. I would not say that it was a moneyed neighbourhood, not the least in comparison to some of the parts of the city we had already visited in the course of investigating the case, but it was certainly home to the well-to-do who were at least moderately successful in business.

When we entered the general practice, I noted approvingly that it was laid out more or less the way that I would have done so were it my own, albeit at a different scale. The walls had been painted a warm shade of cream, and pots in the corners were full of lush plants that gave an additional splash of colour and life to the reception area. Everything, from the worn wooden flooring to the chairs set all in a row underneath the large window that bore the office's name, was well-scrubbed, and there was the sweetly antiseptic tang of carbolic acid in the air.

A bell above the door had jangled as Wilde and I entered, and while the reception area had been empty in short order two horses who could only be Lisa Whinnypeg and her fiancé appeared from a back room. Lisa Whinnypeg was quite striking in appearance, for unlike her brothers, all of whom had coats of solid colours, she was skewbald with patches of a glossy chestnut brown mingled with those of purest white. Her long mane and tail, which were a silky black precisely the same shade as those of William and Edward Whinnypeg, had been elaborately braided with little beads of silver and coloured glass, and her eyes were a rich brown. She was almost as tall as her eldest brother but had a more delicately feminine build that her dress served to emphasize. I thought her dress perhaps a touch impractical for an active physician, although it was fit close to her body and lacked excessive ornamentation.

In contrast to Lisa Whinnypeg, who seemed the very image of a lady of noble birth, her fiancé would not have looked out of place pulling an omnibus by his lonesome. Indeed, he dwarfed William Whinnypeg in height by a considerable margin, and he was so thickly muscled that he seemed not to have an ounce of fat on his powerful body. Shoemaker had a coat of gleaming black fur that gave way to shaggy white at his hooves, and his eyes were so dark that I could not make out his pupils. His suit was not quite as fine as his fiancée's dress, but it was obviously well-tailored and certainly fashionable. "Are you Dr. Lisa Whinnypeg?" Wilde asked politely after the two horses took a moment to size him up, "And you must be Dr. Shoemaker."

"I am," Lisa Whinnypeg said, and I immediately understood why Edward Whinnypeg had said that his sister's voice was unmistakable.

Indeed, Lisa Whinnypeg's voice was not merely well-cultured but very nearly musical, as warmly feminine as her appearance. She looked at Wilde with a faintly curious expression, while I fancied that Shoemaker beheld my companion with barely disguised scepticism. "Who are you?" she asked, and Wilde turned first to me.

"This is Dr. Judith Hopps and I am Nicholas Wilde, consulting detective. I believe your oldest brother may have told you to expect a visit?"

"O!" Lisa Whinnypeg said, covering her mouth as she uttered a delicately tinkling laugh, "You must forgive me. You see, I did not expect you to be a fox."

Wilde smiled blandly as she laughed again. "Dear William did inform me that you would stop by," she said once she had stopped, and then gestured at the stallion by her side, "Charles and I shall be happy to answer any questions you might have."

"I heard about what happened to that poor mule," Charles Shoemaker said, and his voice was precisely as deep and low as I had expected based on his enormous size, "Simply terrible."

"It was very nearly a tragedy," Wilde said agreeably, "Now, I have heard from Edward Whinnypeg that you were at a party of his the night an attempt was made on the life of Lawrence Whinnypeg. Did you spend the entire night at this party?"

"Of course," Lisa Whinnypeg said, "It was ever so important to Edward that I attend. He has ever been, well..."

She seemed at a loss for how to put it politely, but Shoemaker smoothly offered, "A touch unruly."

Whinnypeg nodded. "Precisely, dear," she said, "Well put."

"Now, I don't suppose you might know who would want Lawrence Quixano dead, would you?" Wilde asked, "Any thoughts you have could be extremely useful."

Although Shoemaker shook his head immediately, Lisa Whinnypeg hesitated briefly before she said, "I have never met this mammal, mind you, but did William not tell you about August Sorrel?"

I could hardly stop myself from turning to look at Wilde to see the expression on his face; William Whinnypeg had not so much as mentioned the name used to arrange the dozens of stallions checking into the Chateau Talpen, doubtlessly to cover the presence of the true mastermind. "He did not," Wilde replied, and I was impressed at his self-control for he did not sound more than mildly interested, "Who is August Sorrel?"

"It is as I told that Inspector Lupuson," Whinnypeg said, "He's a rather nasty fellow who seems to have nothing better to do than write into all the papers with his awful opinions, many of which concern my brother. Mr. Sorrel is a right coward, too, for he has never had the decency to put his words before my brother in the flesh."

Wilde made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. "I have heard, both from your brother and elsewhere, that your opinions and his do not precisely align in the political arena."

I think just about any mammal would have taken Wilde's words as an insinuation that Lisa Whinnypeg was the true author of the letters published in the papers and signed August Sorrel, and certainly Shoemaker did. "Now see here—" he began, taking a step towards my companion, but his fiancée put a gentle grip around his arm.

"No, no, I am sure he meant nothing by it," Lisa said, "It is true William and I have our differences, but his opposition to the self-appointed moral authorities who would put into place their anti-miscegenation laws has my full support. I would say that William simply lacks a full understanding of what _noblesse oblige_ means; it is not enough that we support the public within our own nation. It is our duty to bring the more savage tribes and nations of the world into our great empire so they may prosper as well."

Her sentiment was one that I had heard and read not infrequently, particularly as it related to my own service in the doomed Battle of Markhorasan. Whether the army's goals were obtainable or not I cannot say, for I lack access to all the relevant information, but I had seen for myself how fiercely those savage tribes would fight to maintain their independence—and also how squalid their living conditions could be. "There are many poor mammals _within_ our empire who have not prospered," I replied, and Lisa Whinnypeg sighed.

"You are quite right, I am afraid," she said, "And while my dear brother's title means he is the one who must act before Parliament and shape policy, Charles and I have done our best to do our part. Every week we go to the penny sit-ups and provide medical services to any who enter."

"Well that is noble indeed of you," Wilde replied, and if there was any trace of sarcasm to his voice I could not hear it, "Although I would suppose you see many more patients in your general practice."

"Naturally," Lisa Whinnypeg said, nodding.

"Did you ever have a horse named Giuseppe Cavallo as a patient?" Wilde asked.

She frowned and turned to Shoemaker. "The name is not familiar to me. Do you recognize it, dear?"

After a moment's pause, he shook his enormous head slowly. "I cannot recall such a stallion," he said, "But let me fetch the ledger."

He turned and exited the reception area, trundling off toward the back room. "He is a remarkable stallion, your fiancé," Wilde observed once Shoemaker had left and we were left waiting.

Lisa Whinnypeg smiled broadly, her entire face lighting up. "I am very fortunate to have met him," she agreed.

"But what will come of your flat once you marry? I would not wish to pry, but it seems to me rather small for two horses," Wilde said.

"O, well, it is William who owns the building," Lisa said, "Charles and I simply rent it from him—and for a truly nominal fee—and we are searching for a larger place to move into together once we marry."

Before Wilde could say any more, Charles Shoemaker returned, holding a thick book bound in dull brown fish leather that appeared tiny in his enormous hooves but must have been about half the size of a broadsheet. "You may check, should you like," he said, thrusting the book towards Wilde.

Wilde accepted the thick volume and set it on the desk, flipping through it rather quickly before closing it. "I see no entry for Mr. Cavallo," he said, "But I do appreciate you letting me view your ledger."

As Shoemaker took the ledger back up, Lisa Whinnypeg asked, "Who is Giuseppe Cavallo? Is he the one who tried killing my half-brother?"

"Precisely so," Wilde said, "I do not mean to impugn your word, but of course we must be sure that the alibis of everyone involved are solid."

"Of course," she said, rather agreeably, "I cannot claim to be close to him, but it is a terrible thing, to attempt murder."

Wilde nodded gravely. "Thank you, I believe that to be all," he said, "We do appreciate your time."

With that, we made our goodbyes and were soon enough back outside on the street. "I am afraid," Wilde said with a somewhat thoughtful air once we were alone again, "That there is some investigation I must do alone before we visit the Whinnypeg estate—which you may join me for, of course—and put an end to this whole affair."

I began to open my mouth, although I was not quite sure what I would have said had Wilde not continued. I might have expressed my disappointment that he would not allow me to accompany him, or perhaps expressed my understanding that I could not follow him everywhere, but he spoke before I had the chance to voice either sentiment. "It is not that I do not enjoy your company," he added, somewhat hastily, "But I am afraid a fox and a rabbit together are somewhat too conspicuous for what I must do next."

"And are you sure you do not wish simply to keep some vital details from me, that I might be as astounded as all others once you reveal your solution?" I teased, pointing up at him as we walked along.

It had begun to snow sometime while we were in the office of Lisa Whinnypeg and her fiancé, and it was already beginning to stick to the street as we went. In the pure whiteness that was beginning to blanket the city once more Wilde's red-orange fur stood out brilliantly, seeming almost to glow in the diffuse light of the sun from behind the clouds. When he spoke, his words had a perfect air of innocence to them. "Do you really suppose I would do such a thing?" he asked, a slight smirk touching his features, "It certainly does not sound like something I would do."

I laughed, and while I did regret that I would not see all of what would follow I found I did not mind too much. I knew that Wilde would explain himself, and for the moment his company as we sought out a hansom was enough.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

"A Study in Gold" previously established that there's a river flowing through the Rain-Forest District called the River Hammes (as a pun on the River Thames), and that the district itself is in a box canyon, hence the existence of a waterfall (with the Ratenbach Falls being a pun on the Reichenbach Falls). This chapter now establishes that the River Hammes flows for a good distance before it descends the falls.

For much of the 19th century, the water quality of the River Thames was awful; in 1858 the river smelled so bad that the House of Commons couldn't meet at Westminster due to the stench. In response, the city began building sewer systems , reservoirs, embankments and pumping stations to help improve the water quality, and by 1881 the river was relatively clean although not necessarily what you would consider fresh. Also of note is that the river stopped regularly freezing over during the winter; due to a combination of the so-called Little Ice Age in the 16th to 19th century and the effects of humans (notably pollution that made the river's current sluggish and consequently more likely to freeze and bridge designs that also slowed the river's current and gave ice a spot to build up), the Thames froze over about 24 times between 1400 and 1835. In the mid-17th century, the times when the river froze over were marked by frost fairs, which allowed canny businesspeople to make up for their ability to use the river normally.

In any event, the River Hammes having a significant elevation change and presumably a faster current than the Thames means it'd be pretty unlikely to freeze over, especially in late 1881. The Zootopia Bridge serves as a reference to the London Bridge, specifically the one that was in existence from 1832 to 1968. There are actually several different bridges that have been called London Bridge, but the one built in 1832 had a particularly interesting fate. In all other cases, when a new London Bridge was built the old one was subsequently destroyed, but the 19th century bridge was actually sold to an American real estate developer named Robert P. McCulloch. It was thus meticulously dismantled, transported, and re-built in Arizona. Although the expression "And if you believe that I have a bridge to sell you" is frequently used in the US to mock someone for being gullible (a usage believed to relate to a con artist "selling" the Brooklyn Bridge as a scam) Robert P. McCulloch actually got his bridge, and his plan for it worked. He had bought it hoping to drum up interest in the community he was developing, Lake Havasu City, and it definitely succeeded; the London Bridge is the second-most visited tourist attraction in Arizona behind the Grand Canyon.

Whereas in American English we typically refer to someone overseeing an exam is proctoring it, in British English they would say that person is invigilating it. I must say, too, that invigilator is a much more dramatic title than proctor; it sounds like the sort of role you'd expect to show up in a work of dystopian fiction.

A mudlark, in the parlance of the late 19th century, was someone who scavenged for items of value around the banks of a river or pickpocketed passers-by as possible. Mudlarks tended to very young or very old, but they were pretty much all very poor.

In the late 19th century, coffee makers for home use were mostly limited to percolators, which aren't too common nowadays except for use by campers where their ability to make a pot over an open flame is particularly useful. Vacuum coffee makers were invented in 1840 and for much of the 19th century were considered to make the best brew, but they are cumbersome and require disassembly prior to pouring a cup, making them somewhat ill-suited to keeping coffee at the ready. Paper coffee filters weren't invented until 1908, and electric drip coffee makers weren't invented until 1954. There are, of course, several other ways of making coffee without electricity, but many of them simply didn't exist in 1881; the French press, for example, wasn't invented until 1929, and moka pots weren't invented until 1933. I'm personally not a coffee drinker, as I prefer tea, but the coffee that's available today is leaps and bounds ahead of what was available in the 19th century.

I figure that it makes sense, given the time period, for the coffee house to have both percolators and vacuum coffee makers, as the former is more suited to having coffee immediately available to serve and the later was at the time considered to make a superior cup with the least amount of grounds in it.

The Eggles cakes are a pun on Eccles cake, a real-world pastry created sometime before the late 18th century in the English town of Eccles. They're small flaky pastry cakes filled with currants and usually topped with sugar. If you like currants, they're actually pretty tasty.

In referring to Lisa Whinnypeg as being a skewbald horse, Dr. Hopps is using the British terminology for what in American English would be referred to as a pinto horse rather than implying that Lisa is actually missing fur. In equestrian usage, skewbald means a horse with a coat consisting of white patches over a coat of any color other than black. The term bald was originally used to mean a white patch (hence the name of the bald eagle), a usage that also survives in the equestrian term piebald for a black and white horse.

The word bus, for a vehicle that carries many passengers, is actually a shortened form of omnibus; omnibus is Latin for "for all," and was still commonly used in speech in the late 19th century before the shortened form pushed it out. The first omnibus ran in Nantes in 1823, and stopped in front of a shop owned by a hatter named Omnés who had a sign in front of his shop that read "Omnes Omnibus." "Omnes" in Latin means "all," which meant his shop had the punny name "All for All," incorporating a wordplay on his name. Passengers quickly nicknamed the new type of vehicle the omnibus, and the term stuck when service expanded into different cities and even countries.

Early omnibuses could hold about eight to twelve passengers, so Dr. Hopps thinks Charles Shoemaker looks strong indeed. His size and coloration is intended to invoke a Shire, a breed of British draught horse renowned for their large size and great strength. His last name is an obvious joke about horseshoes, although farrier would have probably been a little more on the nose for horses specifically.

Incidentally, the Latin meaning of omnibus is why collections of stories or novels are called omnibus editions, particularly if they are the complete work of an author or story series.

Carbolic acid was used as an antiseptic in the late 19th century, pioneered by Dr. Joseph Lister (who was, incidentally, also the inventor of Listerine). It's not used as an antiseptic nowadays because it irritates skin, open wounds, and mucus membranes, but it was quite effective. Indeed, when Lister treated compound fractures (that is, broken bones where the broken end of the bone goes through the skin) with carbolic acid, none of his patients developed infections in the broken limb, which was a huge step forward for medicine. Previously, the preferred course of action for a compound fracture was to amputate the affected limb since infection was more or less inevitable otherwise. Carbolic acid does also have a somewhat sweet scent, as Dr. Hopps notes.

The phrase "noblesse oblige" is French for "nobility obliges," and has been used since at least the 1830s to suggest that members of the nobility have certain obligations to the public as a result of their noble rank. Lisa Whinnypeg's understanding of it wasn't too uncommon in the 19th century; it was relatively common for citizens of the major powers to view less developed countries with a rather paternalistic air. Dr. Hopps, as a result of her military experience, rather naturally thinks to the events of the Second Anglo-Afghan War, which really had nothing at all to do with improving the lives of people in Afghanistan and instead was really about having a buffer between British-controlled India and the Russian Empire.

On the flip side, her work providing free healthcare to the extremely poor was quite charitable by the standards of the 19th century. The National Health Service wasn't established until 1948, becoming the first truly universal healthcare system in the world and the model for many countries that have established similar systems. Before then, while participation in insurance organizations was common, the truly poor had no real options other than charity. Penny sit-ups don't exist anymore, but they were a Victorian attempt at helping the homeless, albeit in a way that seems particularly callous by modern standards. They were homeless shelters where a person could pay a penny to sit on a bench indoors (and, especially important for the winter, in heated rooms) overnight. However, they were not allowed to lie down and sleep, making them of somewhat limited value.

A broadsheet is the standard size for a newspaper, which is about 29.5 by 23.5 inches (749 by 597 mm). Something half that size would be an enormous book, although somewhat less so for a horse. It is possible to make leather out of fish skin; as I've previously mentioned in "A Study in Gold," I don't think mammal skin would fly for making leather in this setting.

As always, thanks for reading! If you're so inclined to leave a comment, I'd love to know what you thought.


	19. Chapter 19

Despite Wilde's pronouncement that he had investigative work that he could only accomplish alone, we did not immediately split up. Rather, he hailed a hansom for a trip back to our flat, which he had stop briefly at a telegraph station so that he could send a long-distance wire, and then disappeared into his bed-room for nearly an hour. I did my best to distract myself with yet another review of my lesson plan for my first class, but I confess I was entirely unsuccessful; I must have read the same lines over and over again without retaining so much as a word. My thoughts kept returning to the mystery, for I simply had no idea as to which of the Whinnypegs—if one of them was indeed responsible—was behind the attempts on Quixano's life.

I was in such a deep state of introspection that it therefore took me a moment, once Wilde exited his bed-room, to react to the dramatic change in his appearance. I had previously seen him disguise himself as a mangy coyote on two or three occasions, and once as an elderly vixen, but I had never before seen him in the guise of a grizzled dingo. Were it not for his one visible green eye, for the other was hidden behind a crude eye patch, I would have said that the mammal who shuffled out of Wilde's bed-room could not possibly be my flat-mate. His appearance was completely transformed, his normally brilliantly red-orange fur a dull and sandy colour and his luxurious tail seeming greatly reduced. Even the way he carried himself was nothing like the fox I knew; all traces of his usual swagger were completely gone and the very weight of the world seemed to be upon his stooped shoulders under his filthy and tattered coat. "Goodness, Wilde!" I cried, "You look a fright."

When Wilde smiled in response, I saw he had somehow endeavoured to make his gleaming white fangs appear yellowed and rotted, but when he spoke it was unmistakably his voice. "I am glad to hear it," he said, "I shall likely be out quite late, but we may plan on taking the nine o'clock to the Meadowlands to-morrow."

I nodded, supposing that Wilde meant us to go to the ancestral home of the Whinnypegs. "Good luck," I called as he walked towards the door, and when he had his paw on the knob I could not keep myself from speaking again.

"Do be careful," I said, and I could not keep the concern from my voice.

I had patched up Wilde before, following a less than perfectly successful solo outing, and while I had not seen him in a state of undress since I removed the stitches I had no reason to doubt that he still bore the scars. "I should hate to sew you up again," I added, and I am sure Wilde saw entirely through my attempt at adding some levity.

"And I should hate to be sewn up again," he said, "So you have my word I shall be as careful as I am able."

With those parting words he left, closing the door behind himself, and I was alone. I made another abortive attempt at reviewing my lesson plan before giving up on it; I could not maintain my focus when my thoughts were so turned to worry over Wilde's well-being and the mystery I had become invested in resolving. Although he was undoubtedly clever—by far the cleverest mammal I have ever know, predator or not—I had seen all the evidence I needed to know that he was absolutely hopeless in a fight. Indeed, although I am sure many mammals would expect a fox to be a vicious and wily foe, apt to maim or kill if backed into a corner, Wilde did not seem to have either the temperament or the skill for such, his inborn talent buried beneath his cultivated exterior. That he was going about in such a disreputable appearing disguise had given me pause, for it did not bear to imagine the sorts of mammals he planned on interacting with.

Then again, Wilde had been at his work long before we had ever met and remained hale and hearty enough, so although I could not completely banish my concern I managed at last to set them aside. I did, however, vow to myself that I would persuade him to teach me how to manage such elaborate disguises. Even if as a bunny my options were significantly more limited than the myriad of canids Wilde could convincingly pose as, I would have dearly loved to accompany him no matter what I would have needed to wear. I sighed, feeling my ears droop downwards, and I turned to the mantle of our fireplace.

Wilde, as was his wont, had pinned the stack of mail he had reviewed before breakfast underneath a jack-knife, and once I had extricated it I took a look for myself at what he had received. Much of the stack was comprised of telegrams, many of them bearing Amarecan addresses, and the messages were as unhelpfully terse as I had expected due to the great cost of sending them; with no context I could not say what they were in response to. The number of mammals in Amareca Wilde had sent messages to was quite surprising, and I wondered if he had ever visited himself, but all the messages seemed to amount to nothing more than "No." Also in the stack was a facsimile of the late Lord Whinnypeg's marriage certificate, which showed that he had been a bachelor at the time he married Margaret Hayes and she had been a widow. Besides confirming that Lawrence Whinnypeg had committed adultery by fathering Lawrence Quixano it did not seem particularly useful, and I set it aside to look through the rest of the stack.

He had a fair number of newspaper clippings that seemed to cover all of the Whinnypeg siblings as well as their father. After an extremely laudatory obituary of Lawrence Whinnypeg there was a glowing review of a play Adam Hayes had performed in as the lead actor, a number of society columns covering Edward Whinnypeg's doings, a short article on Lisa Whinnypeg's charity work, and a few densely written articles concerning the work that William Whinnypeg was performing in Parliament. None of them particularly caught my interest, although I supposed that they showed Wilde had prodded at the past of all of the likeliest suspects. Once I was past those clippings, I came to what was by far the thickest single document in the pile—the last will and testament of Lawrence Whinnypeg.

Wilde had previously offered to allow me to read it for myself, but as my knowledge of the law is far from complete I had declined, content to allow him to summarize it. Without anything better to occupy my time I turned to it, trying to make sense of the will, which was so obtusely worded I wondered if it was deliberate. Struggling through it did not teach me anything Wilde had not previously mentioned, for the estate of Lawrence Whinnypeg had been divided precisely as described. William, Edward, and Lisa Whinnypeg had each received a five per-cent share, while Lawrence Quixano received a forty per-cent share in a trust and Adam Hayes had received only a ring. The remainder of the estate, as under the condition of the fee tail, had not been specifically willed to William Whinnypeg but he had received it as the heir apparent. I was somewhat surprised at the sheer scope of the Whinnypeg holdings, although I supposed that considering their value I should have known them to be vast. Indeed, the coffee house Wilde and I had visited earlier that day was likely the business of least value, and it looked to be entirely capable of supporting a mammal in a comfortable lifestyle. By contrast, any one of the mills, mines, and farmland could have funded a life of absolute leisure, and I could not begin to imagine the work in coordinating so vast a set of financial holdings.

The trust in Lawrence Quixano's name consumed the bulk of the document, however, and if the rest of the will had seemed overly elaborate the trust took it a step further. As Wilde had described, upon Quixano's death the trust would devolve to the mule's own heirs of the body, failing the existence of which it would go to Lawrence Whinnypeg's. It seemed to me that the trust was absolutely the reason for Quixano to be targeted, and a frown crossed my face. I found it curious that Wilde did not seem to have any apparent interest in speaking with the mammal responsible for managing the trust, one Agnes Areion. Then again, I did not know precisely what he planned to investigate alone and I set the thought aside.

My review of Wilde's mail had not produced any useful information but it had consumed several hours, and I was preparing—with little enthusiasm—to sit down to a cold supper when there suddenly came a knock at the door. I hurried to the door as quickly as I could manage with my bad leg, not even pausing to grab my cane in my haste, and I barely hesitated to call out, "Who's there?" before opening it.

The answer, which came without the slightest hesitation, was somewhat disappointing. "It's Toby," came the distinct voice of Inspector Lupuson, "Is Wilde in?"

I had pulled open the door even as the wolf was speaking and he looked down at me. "Ah, Dr. Hopps," he said, "Good evening. I suppose Wilde is out after all?"

"I am afraid so," I said, "But please, do come in. I may pass a message along, should you have one."

Lupuson took me up on my offer, shrugging off his snow-dusted coat as he came in. The sun had already set and it seemed to have started to snow feebly, halos forming around the streetlamps as the snowflakes reflected the warm glow of gaslight. "That is most kind of you, doctor," he said, "Might I trouble you for a brandy? Or does that mad fox not keep anything worth drinking?"

As he spoke he was looking around the parlour, and I supposed from the perspective of an outsider not familiar with Wilde's ways there was good reason to be sceptical of any beverage offered up from his stock. Indeed, his acid-stained workbench, topped with glass bottles full of colourful liquids, made my companion seem well up on poisons. We did, however, maintain a small selection of alcohols, which were more for the benefit of Wilde's clients than for himself or me. When he was with a client he was likely to say, with a self-deprecating smile upon his face, that it interfered with the function of his mind. When it was just the two of us he was more apt to say in a light-hearted manner that it would make him overly maudlin, although I had never noticed any particular difference in his behaviour when he chose to indulge along with me. In any event, I cannot say that I was surprised to find Wilde stocked Lupuson's favourite brand or a glass appropriately sized to a wolf; he had a truly eclectic assortment of glassware, including one nearly the size of a punch bowl that I supposed was for Inspector Trunkaby.

Once I had poured Lupuson's drink, and a much smaller one for myself, I offered him his and he downed it in a trice. "Thank you, Dr. Hopps," he said as he collapsed into the chair by the fire that Wilde favoured, and I saw how weary the pale wolf looked, "Has Wilde offered any explanation of who was behind the attempt?"

"None at all," I said, my tone rather apologetic, and Lupuson sighed deeply.

"I focused my efforts upon investigating Giuseppe Cavallo, you know," he said, even as he gestured vaguely at his empty glass.

I took it away to refresh his drink, asking as I limped towards the bottle, "Have you found anything of interest?"

"Cavallo was a perfect nobody," the wolf replied, and I thought I saw significant irritation in his pale blue eyes, "He lived in a boarding house—more of a dosshouse, if you ask me—alone, and I have found no sign of any sort of family. There was a yew tree near the property, for what it's worth. The stench of the place, though!"

Lupuson paused to finish off his second serving of brandy and I saw the beginning of a flush in his ears as the alcohol began to work. "It must have been awful, with a nose such as your own," I said, and my sympathy was not manufactured; although my sense of smell was not nearly as developed as his, I knew the pain a suddenly loud noise caused my sensitive ears and I could imagine it to be similar.

"Yes, with a nose like mine," he said broodingly as he looked into his empty glass, "That is my value, after all."

He fell silent a moment and I realized something that should have occurred to me much sooner. Lupuson envied Wilde, and why should he not? Lupuson's keen sense of smell made him of particular use to the police, but perhaps he felt little better than a tool to be used. I wondered if Wilde ever felt the same, but in the moment it was the wolf who seemed to need consolation. "You are more than your nose," I replied, "Wilde has spoken rather highly of your skills as an officer."

It was not precisely a lie, considering that Wilde's praise could be interpreted to be rather faint in the wolf's case, but I thought he needed to hear it. From my army days I knew that the loyalty of wolves ran incredibly deep, but it was not endless. Only the cruellest of officers refused to give them the praise they desired and so frequently earned, and I was pleased to see Lupuson's gratitude. His ears perked up and I could hear his tail thumping as it attempted to wag, and he seemed to recover the cheery good humour he had been full of when I had met him. "Has he really?" Lupuson said, "Well, he is a clever one."

"He is indeed," I agreed, and Lupuson's features resolved themselves into a smile.

"Thank you, doctor," he said, "Now, there is a message I should like you to pass along to Wilde."

Naturally, I agreed to the inspector's request, and he set his glass aside before speaking. "I suspect Aaron White to be the guilty party," he said, "He was motivated by revenge, I think, for he is the owner of several textile plants in Amareca, the same business the late Lord Lawrence Whinnypeg had significant holdings in. Therefore, White conspired with Cavallo to destroy the Whinnypeg family, for the obvious conclusion was that one of the siblings attempted the murder and the scandal would ruin them."

I frowned. "White aided me in saving Quixano's life," I objected, and Lupuson shrugged.

"What of it? Whether or not Quixano died, the end result would be the same. Besides, it provides greater cover for him," Lupuson said, "I have seen similar instances of murderers attempting to hide their involvement by being the first to render aid."

I had to admit that Lupuson had a point there, for his hypothesis did seem to fit the facts rather cleanly in all regards but one. "But you have no evidence," I said, and it was not a question.

"I do not," Lupuson said, "Who else could it be? I have talked to each and every one of the Whinnypegs and each is a less likely choice than the next."

"Wilde is fond of saying that preconceptions bias the thinking," I said, and Lupuson chuckled.

"Then I shall expect to hear something suitably clever from him," he said, "I must demonstrate I am taking action, and that soon."

"I shall pass your message along," I said, and Lupuson pushed himself upright.

"Thank you for your hospitality, doctor," he said, "I must be off, however."

I bade him goodbye, and once he was gone I found I did not have much of an appetite for my supper. I could not shake the wolf's words, and as I picked at the sad meal of canned vegetables I wondered whether or not he was right. Certainly it seemed a plausible enough theory, but I could not think of anything to confirm it. The night therefore dragged on, my thoughts running in endless circles, and though I waited for Wilde the hour grew increasingly late. Finally, at some point when I was attempting to distract myself once more with my lesson plan, my eyes closed and I fell asleep.

* * *

In the morning, once I had roused myself from my bed and looked in dismay at how crumpled I had rendered my papers, I was somewhat surprised when I could hear the sound of Wilde's breathing coming from his room. Considering that I had been first a farmer and then an army doctor, I thought I tended to rise quite early in the morning, but it was rare indeed for me to wake before Wilde. Still, the fact that I knew he had managed to get back to our flat raised my spirits, and I set about my morning ablutions, remembering that he had promised we would take a nine o'clock train to the Meadowlands. When it was perhaps half past seven and I had already been prepared for some time, Wilde's bed-room door opened and I saw something rare indeed. I had seen Wilde dishevelled before, but discounting the times he had been in disguise it really only occurred when he got caught in poor weather. He tended to give off the impression that he woke with every strand of fur perfectly in place, but that was clearly not the case.

Wilde's long winter coat was snarled and tangled, even matted in places, and he looked at me blearily as he entered the parlour, yawning widely to reveal teeth that had returned to their proper pearly colour. "Good morning, Hopps," he said as he adjusted his nightgown, "How was your evening?"

I recovered quickly from my surprise. "Never mind that," I said, "Are you quite alright? You look rather..."

Before I could come up with a suitable description, Wilde waved a paw carelessly. "It is no matter," he said, "I sometimes sleep poorly in the winter. Never fear, we shall make our train."

Although I was still somewhat concerned, he seemed whole and healthy, particularly once he had groomed and dressed himself. Although I dearly wished to ask him what he had learned the previous night, I had promised to pass Lupuson's message along, and I therefore relayed the visit the inspector had made as we took a hansom to the train station. I finished the retelling shortly before we arrived, and then we were caught in the throng of mammals of all sizes clamouring for the ticket station and the trains, conversation all but impossible over the din. When we at last boarded our train and found a compartment suited to our size, Wilde nodded to me. "Thank you, Hopps, I shall catch up with Lupuson soon enough," he said, and then leaned back in his seat.

"Did you learn anything of value last night?" I asked, "Where did you go?"

Wilde did not immediately respond, and I then noticed that his head had lolled back and his breathing was increasingly regular. He had, somehow, fallen asleep nearly the instant he had taken his seat, and I could only shake my head in disbelief. I did not know exactly when he had returned to our flat, and though I was desperate for answers I allowed him to remain asleep.

The ride to the Meadowlands was a relatively short one, no more than an hour long, and despite my interest in learning more from Wilde I soon found it difficult to pull my eyes from the window. The grey bulk of buildings in the city gave way to empty fields and plains quickly enough, and I supposed that in another few decades the Meadowlands would be a part of Zootopia as the edge of the city reached ever further outwards. Until that happened, however, the scenery was lovely, snow blanketing fallow fields and a few quaint villages not too dissimilar from where I had been born.

The Meadowlands station was somewhat on the older side but no less lovely for it, and quite bustling with an assortment of mammals who all seemed to be mostly equine. Wilde awoke nearly the instant the train stopped, and I followed him off to the platform, where we quickly found a hansom for hire. Wilde had given me every indication that our visit would be a short one, and neither of us had brought anything in the way of luggage, so it was a straightforward matter to be on our way to the Whinnypeg estate. The horse pulling the hansom, who had first been obviously sceptical of a fox and bunny wishing to visit the earl who owned practically everything we saw, quickly warmed to Wilde's charms and spent the trip giving what felt like a complete verbal history of the Meadowlands. He seemed to know the roads particularly well, for though they were mostly small and winding country roads that were covered with snow and difficult to see he spent more time looking back at Wilde and I then he did looking ahead, cheerfully rattling off details such as when the local church had been built and where the first mill had been. I could certainly not get a word in edgewise, and from all appearances neither could Wilde, for any conversational gambit was quickly dominated and taken over by the garrulous horse.

The entire journey from the station to the Whinnypeg estate could not have taken more than fifteen minutes, though it felt much longer, and when I beheld William Whinnypeg's home I could not help but think that it made Edward Whinnypeg's flat seem like the lowest hovel on the meanest back slum in all of Zootopia. It did not appear to adhere to any single architectural style, but rather showed the signs that generations of Whinnypegs had built upon it from ancient bones. Indeed, though the centre portion looked old indeed, with thick stone walls and narrow windows, it had two wings, which turned the profile of the building into an enormous H, that were of an obviously more modern vintage. With the delicate covering of snow over the elaborately gabled roof it was rather picturesque, and though I supposed the grounds were all the more impressive in the summer it was obvious as great deal of care had gone into managing the topiary and an elaborate folly in the form of a ruined temple some hundred yards away from the main building.

After paying our fare Wilde went directly to the main door, as I supposed that he would, and gave it a firm rap. I heard the shuffling of approaching hooves long before the door was opened by a wizened and stooped old stallion, his bay fur nearly completely white with age. He was obviously a servant by the way he dressed and I supposed he was the major-domo. "Mr. Wilde?" he asked, and though his voice had gone somewhat raspy with age it was perfectly neutral despite the appearance of a fox who had knocked upon the main door, "The master is expecting you."

The stallion gestured stiffly for us to enter. "Thank you," Wilde said, "It was kind of Lord Whinnypeg to agree to see me, and on such short notice."

The old stallion did not answer, as I suppose he might have felt it beneath his dignity; from the expression his features seemed to be frozen in it looked as though it would cause him physical pain to smile. "I do appreciate your help," Wilde continued, ploughing on as though our guide was not resolutely silent, "Mister...?"

"Maurice Cleveland, the major-domo of the Whinnypeg estate," the stallion replied, his words just as precisely neutral as before.

The elderly stallion was perhaps either unable or unwilling to walk particularly fast, but I could not say that I minded. Although my leg was not bothering me any more than it usually did, the interior of the estate was so wonderfully decadent that it would have been a shame to miss a single detail. The walls were covered with what appeared to my inexpert eye to be tapestries some two or three hundred years old, the colours somewhat muted but the needlework absolutely exquisite. Elaborately mullioned windows let in the morning light and made marble floors and columns gleam richly, and every single piece of the elegantly ornamented and carved furniture we passed was likely a priceless antique. Considering that Lawrence Whinnypeg's father was said to have brought the family very nearly to ruin, there was quite a bit of evidence that he had been successful beyond any reasonable measure at restoring their standing, and I wondered at what the transition had been like. "You served Lord Whinnypeg's father before him, did you?" Wilde asked casually as Cleveland led us down yet another corridor.

"I have served the Whinnypeg family my entire life, sir," the stallion replied, and for the first time I thought there was a touch of emotion—genuine pride, I would say—in his voice, "It has been my great privilege to serve three generations of the family."

Wilde simply nodded, and lapsed into silence until we had been brought to Lord Whinnypeg's study. It was as splendid a room as any of the others in the estate, large and airy with enormous windows that dominated one wall. The walls were lined with bookshelves that seemed to be full of ledgers, and a great desk dominated a large part of the room, covered with the clutter of a busy businessmammal. An elaborate fireplace of carved stone occupied much of the wall opposite the desk, and above the mantle hung a portrait that had been done of the Whinnypeg family. At the desk was Lord William Whinnypeg, his collar undone as he pored over books, but he stood up the instant the major-domo knocked on the open door. "Ah, Mr. Wilde!" he cried before the major-domo had even made his departure, "I am glad to see you again. And you as well, Dr. Hopps."

He strode across the room, shaking first Wilde's paw and then mine. "Have you had any success? Is Lawrence well?" he asked, the questions coming one after another without the opportunity to answer.

"I am quite close," Wilde replied, "And Mr. Quixano is doing well."

"Excellent, excellent," Whinnypeg said, "Now, what brings you to my estate?"

It was a question I did not know the answer to myself, so I was also eager to hear Wilde's answer. There had been a few points on which William Whinnypeg had, if not precisely lied, then he had at least deliberately misled us on, such as it being his suggestion that Lawrence Quixano book a room in the Chateau Talpen following the first unsuccessful attempts on his life using bricks. I had my service revolver in my pocket and I would have happily defended Wilde should the stallion have turned on us, but for a moment I wondered if Wilde was about to accuse the earl of being the attempted murder; I hoped that it would not be the case since we did not have so much as a constable with us. I was as confident in my aim as I had ever been, but I was still relieved when Wilde's words remained genial. "There are a few loose ends I wished to address," he said vaguely, and then turned to the portrait of the Whinnypeg family over the fireplace, "That is a wonderful portrait, by the by. Am I correct in saying it was painted in 1865?"

That deduction, at least, required no explanation, for the date was recorded near the artist's signature near the bottom. The portrait itself was quite remarkable, for the artist had captured the detail at least as well as a photograph and in incredibly vivid colours. Adam Hayes, although not appearing as strong or tall as when we had seen him perform, was the same metallic golden colour, which made him easy to distinguish from his half-siblings. William and Edward Whinnypeg had apparently looked far more similar in their youth before age had begun to differentiate them, and as the youngest Lisa Whinnypeg looked positively like a filly, her pattern of white and brown patches appearing somewhat different from how they had looked on her as an adult. Her dark brown mane did not seem to have changed in length, although in the portrait it naturally appeared longer in proportion to her body. What absolutely caught my eye, however, were the two adults in the portrait. Margaret Whinnypeg was seated, Adam on her knee, and the resemblance was obvious although her fur as well as her tail and mane were white. Lawrence Whinnypeg was standing, one hoof on Margaret's shoulder and the other on William's, and although I had never met the mammal and could not say how accurate it was, the artist had perfectly captured a steely and resolute look.

I would not say that the family looked happy, but they did look like a family, and William Whinnypeg nodded eagerly in response to Wilde's question. "Quite so," he said, "My father had it commissioned, but he never displayed it if you can believe that."

Wilde made a wordless noise of agreement. "It would be a shame to hide it," he said, "And would I also be correct in saying that this desk was your father's?"

That I could not have deduced, and from how Whinnypeg's eyes widened I saw he was as surprised as me. "It was, but however could you tell?"

"Although the style is relatively timeless, it shows far more use than could be accounted by you alone," Wilde replied.

He strolled over to the desk and turned casually to Whinnypeg. "Do you use the hidden compartment yourself?"

The stallion simply stared at him. "Hidden compartment?" he said, "You must be mistaken, it has no such—"

Whinnypeg broke off suddenly as Wilde first turned a delicate little bit of scrollwork on the desk and then gently placed a claw beneath one of the lacquered panels on top the desk, which had lifted slightly with a metallic click. The panel smoothly opened as he pulled, exposing a shallow compartment concealed in the surface of the desk which was full of yellowing paper. Wilde delicately lifted them out and shuffled through them. "Love letters," he said mildly, "Addressed to your father."

William Whinnypeg appeared to be stunned, completely incapable of moving. "Love letters?" he repeated, his voice nearly as hoarse as that of his major-domo.

"Indeed," Wilde replied, "Not from your lady mother, either."

I took a look at one of the letters myself, and though it had not been signed I was sure that Wilde was correct. The writing didn't have the elegant form that would be expected of a noble lady; it was rough and barely feminine, as though written by a mammal without much formal education.

 _Dearest Lawrence,_ [the top letter read]

 _I wish only to be with you and cannot bear our separation. My heart yearns for you every day, my beloved, and I feel incomplete without you. Hope grows where love is planted, and while my letter is a meager symbol of my love I know that we have planted an entire garden which I cannot wait to see bloom. I long for the day we may love without pretense._

 _All of my love, always_

 _Your silly mare_

The other letters seemed to be variations on a similar theme, and none of them was signed by name. The top letter was the only one addressed to Lawrence by name; all the others referred to him as "My dearest stallion" but it was obvious the author had been the same in all cases for the writing was absolutely identical. None of the letters were dated, so I could not say which of them was the oldest, but the one that had been on time looked to have been careworn by repeated handling as though it had been the most precious. At some point when Wilde and I were reading through the letters William Whinnypeg had recovered enough to join us, and once he was finished looking over our shoulders William Whinnypeg's expression was no less surprised than it had been. "My father truly loved Roberta Quixano," he said, "He must have, for her to write such letters."

Indeed, I had been somewhat uncomfortable to read such passionate declarations of love, for it felt uncomfortably ghoulish to pry into the private matters of two dead mammals. "Your father was a complicated mammal," Wilde replied, diplomatically enough, and Whinnypeg sighed.

"To my knowledge, he never told my mother or any of my siblings that he loved them. Nor even me," the stallion said.

"Some mammals never say aloud what they truly feel," Wilde replied, and I wondered at how true it was for the fox himself.

"I think I shall take these, for now," Wilde continued, gathering up the letters and carefully tucking them away, "I should like Lawrence Quixano to see them."

"Of course, of course," William Whinnypeg replied, rather distractedly, "He deserves to see them."

"I should also like to impose on you a touch more," Wilde said, "Could I see the kitchens? I promised the daughter of one of your cooks that I would say hello to her mother for her upon my visit."

I supposed that it provided a partial answer to where Wilde had been the previous night, for he had certainly made no such promise to the maid of Adam Hayes when I had been with him. "Of course," Whinnypeg repeated, "There is nothing more important than family. I suppose you mean Mrs. Quaggason?"

Wilde nodded his agreement and the earl gave a strong tug on a bell pull that quickly summoned the major-domo again. We made our goodbyes, leaving behind a mammal that appeared almost broken as we set back off down the corridor. "These love letters to Lawrence Whinnypeg were a fortuitous find," Wilde remarked as we followed after Cleveland, patting his pocket, "I confess I did not expect to find them, but it shall be good for the truth to be known, do you not agree, Hopps?"

Considering that in his delirium Quixano had raved about his suspicions that his father had never truly loved his mother, I did agree that they might be of some small comfort to him. "Of course," I said, "They are rather sweet."

The major-domo suddenly stopped, turning to look at us with ancient and watery eyes. "Love letters to the old master?" he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Yes, from Roberta Quixano," I answered, and the old stallion's eyes fell.

"I don't permit the servants to speak of her," he said, "It was shameful and beneath the old master's dignity."

"Is that why you sent her away?" Wilde asked mildly, and Cleveland's response was instantaneous.

"Of course, sir," he said, and then he turned and continued guiding us, walking a touch faster than he had before until we at last came to the kitchens, which were vast and warm and full of wonderful smells.

It did not take much effort to find Mrs. Quaggason, for not only was she the single quagga in the room but she seemed to be the glue holding the chaos of the kitchen together. Touches of grey lightened the stripes of her muzzle and flecked the bay colour of her arms, and she had a great belly in the manner of many cooks that jiggled as she turned about calling out orders even as she worked herself. Her voice was surprisingly deep and carried quite well, and though she was obviously in control her words were not unkind and deep laugh lines had been worn into her face. It seemed to take her a moment to realize that her domain had been interrupted, but once she noticed Wilde and I her attention turned completely toward us, ignoring Cleveland completely as she ushered us out of the heat and noise of the kitchen and into the hallway. "You've met that daughter of mine, then?" she boomed once we had made our introductions, "How is she? Still too thin, I suppose?"

"She's quite happy in the city," Wilde replied, "As to her build, I cannot comment on how she looked when last you saw her."

Mrs. Quaggason laughed, which was just as rich as I would have expected it to be. "I suppose that's you being polite, saying she's still thin as a rake. Like you, dear," she said, poking a finger towards me, "There's nothing to you. A stallion wants a mare with some meat on her bones, and from all the rabbits I've seen the same is true of bucks. Either that or does are just always pregnant!"

She laughed again as she winked at me, and I could see from Wilde's expression that he found it all quite amusing. "Is that something your husband has said?" I asked in what was almost assuredly to Wilde a transparent attempt to change the topic back to her.

"He wouldn't have me any other way," she said proudly.

"Clearly you must love each other very much," Wilde said, "Does he work on the estate as well?"

"He maintains the carriages," she replied, "If you take one back, you're sure to see him."

"O, that works out quite well," Wilde replied, "For then I can tell him as well that your daughter says hello and sends her love. Do you have any other foals? I am afraid I completely forgot to ask her."

For the first time, Mrs. Quaggason's cheer dimmed. "We did," she said, "Her twin brother. He passed when she was two."

"I am sorry for your loss," I said, and Wilde nodded sympathetically, adding, "That's a terrible shame."

Mrs. Quaggason sighed. "That's life," she said, "I suppose your parents have lost more than one kit, Dr. Hopps."

I nodded, for it was the truth. I knew my parents mourned those kits in their own way, and the grief in the quagga's eyes was no less obvious. "I have a photograph, you see?"

She dug what looked like a repurposed cigarette case out of the pocket of her apron, opening it to reveal a somewhat battered photograph of her family, including her obviously deceased son. "This is all I have left of my Howard," she said, her smile sad.

The four mammals in the picture were stiffly posed and obviously younger, Mrs. Quaggason being much thinner and also obviously deeply grieving. "He was a handsome foal," Wilde said, and Mrs. Quaggason nodded.

"He took after his father, that way," she said, and then snivelled, obviously suppressing the urge to cry.

"I am sorry to have brought up so painful a memory," Wilde said quietly, but the quagga shook her head.

"I'll always miss him, but we've had a good life. The Whinnypegs have done so much for us," she said, and there was obvious warmth in her voice.

We quickly made our goodbyes, and Wilde seemed interested in nothing else in the Whinnypeg estate, speaking with Mr. Quaggason only briefly as he prepared a carriage for us to return to the train station. Although the horse pulling the Whinnypeg carriage seemed content to do so in utter silence, neither Wilde nor I spoke until we were on the train back to Zootopia. "So," Wilde said, clapping his paws together, "Would you like to hear what I was up to last night?"

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Before I go into my usual notes, I'd like to mention that the first chapter of my next story, "Ouroboros: the Endless Cycle," is now up. It's a fantasy AU so it's a bit different from my other work, but if you like my writing you might like it, too.

Wilde did disguise himself as a coyote at one point during "A Study in Gold," and this chapter shows he's used that same disguise at least one more time. Although he never dressed as a vixen in that story, Dr. Hopps did note that among his clothing he did have dresses and Sherlock Holmes was mentioned to have dressed as an elderly woman in "The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone."

Dr. Hopps did have to stitch Wilde back up following an encounter with some wolves in "A Study in Gold," although in that case he was not actually alone since he had Finnick with him. Hopps, however, was not with him, which is apparently good enough for her to consider Wilde to have been on his own.

It was possible to send transatlantic telegrams in 1881, but they were indeed expensive. The first transatlantic telegram was sent in 1858 using a cable that was put down at great cost. The way the cable was laid was actually pretty simple—there were two vessels, one from North America and one from Europe, that put down cable and met each other in the middle of the Atlantic, at which point the cables were spliced together. The first connection quickly failed though—with such an incredibly long wire without any signal repeaters or load coils, there was significant signal distortion, and the people on either side of the cable couldn't agree on the best way to run it. On one end, messages were transmitted at very high voltages, which degraded the insulation on the cable and led to its failure less than a year after it was put down.

Even when it was running, the signal distortion meant that it was difficult to send or receive messages, and the best speed they could manage was transmitting 0.1 words per minute. Although advancements made in creating shorter cables across the Mediterranean provided valuable knowledge in how to build cables that wouldn't fail, even the replacement cable laid in 1866 could only transmit eight words a minute due to the unresolved electrical challenges of sending a signal over such a long distance.

Due to the low bandwidth of the cable and the significant expense in manufacturing and laying the cable, in 1881 a transatlantic telegram message would be more expensive than a local one, and since messages were billed by the character it shouldn't be too surprising that the ones Wilde received were very short.

A dosshouse is the British equivalent of an American flophouse—a place that offers beds (and typically little else) at a low cost, leading to them being frequently used by transients and the working poor.

Canned foods were first prepared in the late 18th century, but the first can openers weren't invented until 1855. Before can openers were invented, cans were most commonly opened with hammers and chisels. Part of the reason for this was because early canned goods came in extremely thick cans which even a modern can opener would find difficult or impossible to open. Canned goods went from being a novelty in the early 19th century to a staple of the middle class by the end of the century.

A "back slum" is a British expression for a street or alley that is particularly poor, derived as an extension of "slum," and the expression was in common usage by the time this story is set.

A folly is an architectural feature that serves no purpose. In the 18th century it was all the rage for the wealthy to build ruins on their estates, such as crumbling medieval-looking towers, Roman temples, or the like. As the Whinnypegs are a particularly old line (with some history of frivolously spending money), it shouldn't be too surprising that they participated in the fad.

The major-domo being named Cleveland is a reference to the Cleveland Bay, the oldest known English horse breed.

Infant mortality rates in the 19th century were significantly higher than they are now, and the loss of a child at a young age was something far more common than it is now. Having a picture taken of a family that includes a dead child would be seen as kind of creepy by modern standards, but in the middle of the 19th century photography was extremely expensive to the average person, and thus it was not uncommon for family portraits to be taken upon the death of a family member to have a final memory of them. When photography became cheaper, this kind of portrait fell out of style.

As always, thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought as we go into the end of this story.


	20. Chapter 20

Wilde settled back into his seat, smoothly lighting his pipe despite the rocking of the train, and took a long draw before he began his explanation of the previous night. "My first stop was to retrace the route Mr. Quixano took when the very first attempts on his life were made, using bricks dropped from atop a nail factory," he said, "It took quite a bit of time with poor company in a rather ghastly pub, but I learned some rather interesting facts."

Although I was quite keen to hear more, I could not help but frown at Wilde's words. "A ghastly pub such as the one in which you were previously attacked by wolves?" I asked, "And you, by your lonesome?"

"No, no, no," Wilde replied, waving a paw, "Touched though I am by your concern, it was nothing at all like that one. The mammals were far friendlier, particularly once they had a few drinks in them on my behalf in memory of their departed co-worker."

"A mammal who worked in the factory died?" I asked, "Was it murder?"

Wilde shrugged expansively. "Certainly no one thought it was murder, but simply the poor luck of the horse that he would sicken and die. Samuel Percheron was, quite frankly, not well-liked by the other employees but there are a number of facts about the matter that become curious in retrospect."

Wilde paused to puff at his pipe again, and I considered his words for a moment, trying to think as he would. "Dare I say this dead horse had more than his species in common with Giuseppe Cavallo?" I said, and Wilde smiled.

"You may indeed," he said, "For the two of them were quite similar. In addition to being somewhat poorly regarded by their fellow employees, neither had any living family and lived quite solitary lives. Percheron also, I may add, worked the night shift, and would have been perfectly able to drop bricks on passers-by around six in the evening as Quixano claimed."

"Did any of his co-workers witness anything of value?" I asked, and Wilde shook his head.

"Nothing any of them found suspicious, I'm afraid," he said, "But here is a pair of curious facts: three months ago Percheron suffered a workplace injury and severely sprained a leg. Five months ago, Cavallo slipped and fell on a Tundra Town street, suffering a bruised bone in the process."

Such injuries, in my considered opinion, would require medical treatment, and I asked the natural question. "Were they patients of Lisa Whinnypeg or Charles Shoemaker?"

"I did not see the names of Cavallo or Percheron in their ledger," Wilde said, "And of course you remember that both doctors denied knowledge of Cavallo."

I did, but before I could consider the matter more, Wilde continued with his recounting of the events of the previous nights. "I next sought out Adam Hayes again and found him much as he was when you last saw him, in the company of Hope Quaggason. I had a message to pass along you see, and in turn when I brought up that I was planning to visit the Whinnypeg estate his maid did indeed ask me to give her love to her parents."

"What message did you give Mr. Hayes?" I asked, and Wilde's response was at the time rather cryptic.

"I told him there are some questions that ought to be asked sooner rather than later," he said, and in response to my puzzled look Wilde simply chuckled.

"It shall be quite clear soon enough," he said, "I must first arrange to have all the players engaged to demonstrate my solution, and thus I made a request for the both of them to meet us and Inspector Lupuson at the coffee house the Whinnypeg family owns to-morrow."

"Why did you not ask the same of William Whinnypeg while we were at his estate?" I asked, looking out the window of the train at the receding countryside, "We have rather missed the opportunity."

"I wished some additional time to pass after our visit before I asked," Wilde replied, "A telegram shall do well enough. Now then, where was I? Ah, yes, after speaking to Hayes and his maid, I called upon some rather unsavoury mammals you'll forgive me if I do not describe. Suffice it to say, however, I confirmed my suspicion that Edward Whinnypeg had quite a bit of outstanding debt to the sort of mammals who are somewhat less forgiving than banks prior to receiving his inheritance. Since then, he has been completely clean so far as they are concerned."

"Will you claim you were in no danger with these unsavoury mammals as well?" I asked, crossing my arms as I looked at my friend.

He seemed somewhat abashed to my eye, almost as though he found my concern for his well-being discomfiting as he briefly glanced away. "It was a calculated risk, shall we say," Wilde replied, "Still, I have confirmed to my satisfaction that Edward Whinnypeg did not fall victim to criminal blackmail."

"Hmm," I murmured, "What next, then?"

"After first visiting the practice of Lisa Whinnypeg and Charles Shoemaker and finding it closed for the day, I visited one of the penny sit ups Shoemaker volunteers at, that I might converse with him incognito. He is as stolid a mammal as he appeared when you met him, and he visits his preferred club only once or twice a week. Still, it was simple enough to confirm his membership and subsequently that he was happily winning at cards quite far away from Tundra Town when the first attempt on Quixano's life that occurred at the Chateau Talpen were made. Speaking of the Chateau Talpen, I did also pay a visit to invite Aaron White along to this little family reunion I am planning for to-morrow. After, of course, I had discarded my disguise, for I doubt he would have listened to me otherwise."

"Was that all?" I asked, trying to puzzle together Wilde's intent.

"More or less," he said cheerfully, "I was quite busy, and what we saw to-day at the Whinnypeg estate has confirmed my suspicions even further."

"What _did_ you see there?" I asked, "You hardly asked William Whinnypeg anything at all."

"My intent was not to question him," Wilde replied, "Rather, I needed to see a full colour image of his father, and the estate did well enough for that. These love letters were an unexpected bonus, although they admittedly have naught to do with the attempts on Lawrence Quixano's life except that they are one piece in the chain of events that led to Lawrence Whinnypeg's adultery."

He patted his pocket as he spoke, and I heard the rustle of the letters he had stashed away. I did not need to ask how he had determined where they had been hidden, for in retrospect it had been obvious—the woodwork that hid the release for the secret compartment was ever so slightly lighter than the surrounding wood, the varnish somewhat worn away by frequent handling. It was a cleverly made desk, for I doubt anyone could have accidentally triggered the release and the surface of the desk showed only the faintest of scuff marks from where the moving panel touched the rest. "I did also stop to invite Lawrence Quixano, incidentally; that was my last stop of the night before returning to our flat. I am not sure he was entirely pleased to see me so late at night, but his ironwork is progressing quite well. I suspect he may even remain a member of the club even once his safety is assured."

"What did Mr. Quixano make of your visit?" I asked, recalling the mule's rather gruff attitude and wondering at Wilde's summary, but my friend's only response was to smile.

"You have enough of the pieces," Wilde replied, "Now, before I spoil it for you, do you see the solution?"

"I confess I do not," I replied, for nothing Wilde had just explained helped me in any way towards divining a culprit.

"Then let me say this," Wilde said, "Put Amareca out of mind for now and focus on what you have observed with me. You have seen August Sorrel with your own eyes, and there are a few inconsistencies which show the whole chain of events."

I considered it, turning his suggestion around in my mind, when I realized what must have happened. "I see you have it now," Wilde replied, apparently having noticed how my ears had suddenly shot up in the moment of realization, "Now, there is still some planning which must be done. May I rely on your assistance?"

"Of course," I replied, and we spent the rest of the train ride back to Zootopia planning out how to manage Wilde's devious scheme.

* * *

The following morning found us once again in the charming coffee house owned by the Whinnypeg family, this time in the company of Inspector Lupuson and Inspector Trunkaby. The elephant police officer was somewhat irritated at Wilde's request for her to join us, for it was of course not her case and as she loudly reminded us she had quite enough police work of her own to attend to. "Consider it a favour," Wilde replied serenely as he sipped at his cup, "One that may prove to be to our mutual benefit, you see."

As he spoke, the first mammal Wilde had invited arrived, having to squeeze through the door that was a touch too narrow for him and duck underneath a ceiling that was a touch too low. Aaron White really was a fair amount taller than Inspector Trunkaby, and as he entered Lupuson perked up. "I cannot blame you for wishing to have Inspector Trunkaby present," he murmured in a low voice, "If he will not come quietly, there is little enough I could do."

"I doubt that will be necessary," Wilde replied at a normal conversational volume as he gestured White over to the table we had claimed.

Although we were seated at the largest table in the coffee house, it was in truth not nearly large enough for two elephants, let alone two elephants, a wolf, a fox, and a rabbit. I do not believe I have ever felt so short as I did at that moment, seeing how Trunkaby and White consumed more than an entire side of the table each. "Mr. White," Wilde said cheerfully, "I do appreciate you showing up on such short notice."

"I am happy to help," the bull elephant replied, although he ran one massive paw across his broad head in obvious confusion, "Why did you wish to meet here?"

"I would like you to confirm some facts about you that I have deduced, if you would not mind," Wilde replied, setting his coffee cup aside on its saucer.

Once White agreed, Wilde began his recitation, his sparkling green eyes half-lidded. "You are a veteran of the Amarecan Civil War, are you not?" Wilde asked.

"How did you know?" the elephant asked, and Wilde gestured at his watch chain.

"You have a Union coin on your watch chain, along with a Confederate medallion of some sort that has been defaced. I would suppose by your accent that you fought on the Confederate side but by your defaced medallion no longer sympathize with them."

"I was a large lad, even at twelve," White replied, "My parents insisted I fight for Southern honour and pride but I found neither in the war, Mr. Wilde."

The expression White wore was one I had seen before on other soldiers, and I could not have guessed how terrible a war it had been for the elephant. "Following the war, you found more peaceful work as a tailor, and following your great success there became owner to several textile mills. You are now in Zootopia looking to both expand your business and find a bride if you can. Thus—"

"I apologize for interrupting, Wilde, but I cannot see the relevance of this recitation," Lupuson cut in suddenly, "May you jump to the salient point?"

"If you wish," Wilde said with a shrug, "Mr. White, I should like to introduce you to Inspector Trunkaby."

He gestured at the elephant police officer, who seemed just as confused as the businessmammal. "I thought you might have some ability to improve the tailoring of her clothes."

"You brought me here to insult my clothes?" Trunkaby asked, sounding far more amazed than angry, "Wilde, the police do not exist for your amusement!"

Wilde shrugged. "I thought you might have some interest in meeting a wealthy Amarecan bachelor who has a flair for clothing, but that is not why I requested the both of you. Quite frankly, a pair of elephants might be helpful indeed in controlling the true perpetrators of the attempts on Lawrence Quixano's life."

"One moment, Wilde," Lupuson cried, "You mean to tell me that this elephant is not the mastermind?"

"Mastermind?" White sputtered.

"Of course not," Wilde said, taking a sip of his coffee, "He is, however, large and strong and quite willing to help. Are you not, Mr. White?"

"I suppose I am," White replied, sounding more bewildered than ever, "But you have me at a loss."

Indeed, had I not been brought into the fold for Wilde's scheme I would have doubtlessly found his behaviour as confusing as did the pair of police officers and Mr. White. Knowing what I did, however, I was not surprised when Wilde explained himself shortly. ""Mr. White, I should like you to wait here while Hopps, Trunkaby, Lupuson and I take a short walk."

Wilde stood up and walked over to the private booth that he and I had determined that William Whinnypeg had used for his meetings with Lawrence Whinnypeg and gestured at the table. "This coffee house has been in the Whinnypeg family for many years, and it has a peculiar feature that I suspect is the entire reason it was built. Inspector Trunkaby, could you please lift the table?"

She threw her considerable weight at it, and at first nothing happened. However, there was a sudden awful squeal of rusting metal and the table came up from the floor, revealing that it had been nailed in place from underneath and exposing a great hole in the floor with stairs descending into the shadowy depths. "A secret tunnel?" Lupuson asked, and his nose quivered.

"That smell!" he cried, "I know it, I swear I do."

"I hoped you might recognize it," Wilde said, "Now, would you mind guarding the tunnel at this end while Hopps, Lupuson, and I take it to its endpoint? Inspector Trunkaby, I should like you to walk to the building it connects and knock at the door."

Wilde gave Trunkaby the address, and she set off at once, her scepticism of Wilde quite overcome by the obvious proof that he was on the right track. Although I supposed that both Wilde and Lupuson could see well enough in the dark to go without additional illumination, Wilde had brought with him a lantern for my benefit, which he ignited as we descended the steps. "It is quite simple," Wilde said as we walked through the tunnel.

Although the tunnel was completely dark and rather cold, it was quite dry, and in the dust that coated the floor the impressions of horseshoes could be seen. "I noticed that the table in the private booth reserved for William Whinnypeg was somewhat different from the other tables in the private booths, and not simply because it was larger. The other tables are simply set on the floor, but this one was obviously set into it, and from there it did not take much to deduce that there was something under the floor. I had noticed as well, when Hopps and I left the coffee house the other day, that there was a hollow of some sort under the street, for I could hear the difference as we walked above."

"Remarkable!" Lupuson cried, and I had to agree.

I had not deduced the existence of the tunnel myself, but Wilde had explained it to me on the train the previous day. "The coffee house has been in the Whinnypeg family for some years now, and I suspect, from my review of records, that the current Lord Whinnypeg's great-grandfather had it built to conduct rendezvous with his mistress. I cannot say how commonly known its existence was for subsequent generations, but at the very least Lawrence Whinnypeg knew of it, although he did not precisely use it for a mistress."

"From the smell, I would say only one mammal has used this tunnel recently," Lupuson said, and Wilde nodded.

"I must defer to your expertise," he said, "Speaking of which, Hopps, has Trunkaby arrived?"

We had reached the end of the tunnel, at which there was a set of sturdily built stone stairs, and I put one ear against a rough wooden door. It was in a relatively small space, no larger than a closet, but the walls were thin enough for me to hear the distinct sound of Trunkaby's voice and two others. I nodded at Wilde, looking at his solemn face in the flickering light of his lantern. "Lupuson, if you would mind leading?" Wilde asked in a low voice, gesturing towards the door.

"With pleasure," the wolf said, a look I would almost describe as hungry crossing his face as he smoothly lifted the latch keeping the door closed and pushed it open.

We found ourselves in a closet, the door we had entered expertly hidden in the wall opposite the closet's door. Buckets, brooms, and other cleaning supplies were in the space, although it was obvious that a careful path had been left, and we were able to creep out of the little closet and emerge exactly where Wilde had previously told me we would. As we entered the room, Trunkaby was speaking with two mammals who suddenly turned to look at us, their surprise quite evident, and Wilde spoke cheerfully. "You may arrest Dr. Whinnypeg, Inspector Lupuson," he said, "She is the one who arranged the attempts on Lawrence Quixano's life."

We were standing in the reception area of her practice, and both the mare and her fiancé somehow managed to look even more surprised. "Dear, what do they mean?" Shoemaker asked, looking from Wilde to Whinnypeg to Lupuson, his head jerking back and forth, "This is absurd!"

"I... I have no idea what you mean," Dr. Whinnypeg said, "How did you get in here?"

Wilde sighed. "You needn't play the fool, doctor," he said, "Your brother Edward has already confessed everything he knows. He was only too willing to admit his culpability to reduce his own punishment."

Dr. Whinnypeg's shoulders slumped. "I never should have trusted that wastrel," she said, and Shoemaker's features resolved themselves into horror.

"You tried to kill a mammal? Your own half-brother?" he asked, backing away from his fiancée, a ragged quaver in his voice, "How could you—"

"He deserved it!" Dr. Whinnypeg cried, her eyes suddenly alight with hatred, "He as good as killed her!"

"By her, you of course mean Roberta Quixano," Wilde said, and Dr. Whinnypeg nodded.

"I admit, I left motive aside when I began my investigation," Wilde said, "I find focusing on ability and opportunity to be far more useful, but let me tell you my understanding of events so you may confirm them. Roberta Quixano was your favourite maid in your youth, until she was forced to leave the household when your father's affair with her got her pregnant. You made some attempts, all of them unsuccessful, to contact her, and in your adulthood set it aside but never forgot. The day eventually came when you learned that Roberta Quixano was mother to your half-brother, although I would say it was not when Lawrence Quixano visited the Whinnypeg estate and made his impassioned demand for your father to help his mother. Rather, I would say that your contact occurred when your father's will was read. You are a doctor yourself, after all, and you must have wondered if you could have saved Roberta Quixano, given the chance."

Dr. Whinnypeg did not speak; it was as though Wilde held the entire room under a spell, which was completely silent even as she glared furiously at him. "For you, it was never about the money but rather your hatred of Lawrence Quixano. His very existence cost you the love and warmth of the mammal who had been more of a mother than your birth mother, the only mammal to show you any sort of parental affection. How could you not hate him?

"Thereafter you began plotting to kill him, but in a rather careful way. The terms of your father's will meant that suspicion would fall immediately upon you and your siblings, and thus you needed a way out. Your first attempt was the creation of August Sorrel, a rather hateful fiction who wrote letters of the most vile sort to all the papers, saying hybrids are the lowest of the low and it is a greater mercy to prevent their creation than support their existence. Sorrel is, of course, a mammal with no physical form, his own existence dating only to shortly after your father's death.

"That on its own was not enough, and thus you attempted to create a scenario that could be blamed on someone else. Samuel Percheron was your choice when you saw the opportunity. You could say that he had been inspired by the words of August Sorrel if anyone bothered investigating a brick falling on the head of a mule. Your contact with him was simple—he came in for treatment of a sprained arm, and you drew him in quite delicately."

"That can't be true," Shoemaker interrupted, tears streaming down his face, "She couldn't have done it. I— I shall fetch the ledger. You may see she never treated a Samuel Percheron."

Wilde's smile was sympathetic. "There will be nothing in the ledger, but its contents have been tampered with. I noticed a peculiar pattern when I flipped through it the other day. There are indeed no entries for Samuel Percheron—or for Giuseppe Cavallo, who I shall get to momentarily—but during the time periods I suppose they came in, all the entries on the corresponding pages are in Dr. Whinnypeg's writing. For every other day, the entries alternate between the two of you as you each log your own patients."

Shoemaker gave a muffled sob as he buried his head in his hooves, collapsing slowly to the floor. I could not blame him, for what we were doing was the very destruction of his world. However, I would never have asked Wilde to stop, and my friend continued. "When Samuel Percheron failed, you disposed of him. Poison, I suspect, although it hardly matters. Your next opportunity is one I suspect you arranged carefully. I suspect you discovered the secret tunnel between your practice and the coffee house shortly after taking up residence, and you put it to quite a different use than it was built for. Your great-grandfather, I think, had it built so he could slip away and meet his mistress, who he built a small shop with a flat for her to live in above it, but you never went into the coffee house. Rather, you simply lurked in the tunnel to listen in on the conversations held in the booth above you; you are the one who suggested the coffee house as a meeting place to your brother, were you not?"

Dr. Whinnypeg remained silent, and after a moment Wilde simply continued. "Thus, although neither your brother nor Lawrence Quixano ever told anyone about his plan for Quixano to hide in a hotel, you knew about it. What's more, you had a patient who would be the perfect candidate for a more elaborate attempt. However, throwing aside any attempts at making it appear to be an accident in exchange for the certainty of killing Quixano, you knew you would need an alibi no one could doubt. For that an accomplice was required, and your brother Edward seemed to be the perfect candidate.

"Edward Whinnypeg had tremendous debts to unsavoury mammals, but those are not the only debts he held, were they? When he received his inheritance he simply prioritized paying off the loans more likely to result in his death if they remained outstanding as compared to the loans he had taken from banks. However, he never would have taken out those unsavoury loans until the banks became rather unwilling to continue lending him money, would he? Therefore, his motivation was quite simple: if Quixano died, he would become a party to the vast trust in the mule's name and be able to pay off his remaining debts.

"As you are far better with money than he is, it was no matter for you to arrange for a multitude of mammals to stay in the same hotel as Quixano, and as before with Percheron you lured Cavallo into becoming an accomplice. Perhaps you promised him money, or perhaps something else, but in the end you arranged for Cavallo to shoot Quixano. However, your plan was not executed perfectly. Edward was responsible for obtaining the weapon, and he chose to steal from Adam Hayes, which I am sure you understood to be quite foolish. Edward, however, thought it would throw suspicion on Hayes, and you were forced to go along with it. Cavallo further muddled your plans when he took the opportunity to poison Quixano rather than shoot him, using yew leaves he harvested from near his own residence. He acted without your permission, I am sure. The evidence, however, is quite clear. Edward was to throw a masquerade party and claim that you were there, but he made a serious error when he had a stand-in for your fiancé as well as for you. Mr. Shoemaker, I know, was at a club the night Quixano was poisoned, but not a masquerade party.

"As for why you yourself went to the Chateau Talpen, I would say your reasoning was twofold. The first was quite simple: you did not trust the mammals you had hired to throw doubt on the identity of the shooter to not simply pocket the money for them to reserve their rooms if you gave it to them elsewhere. The other, I suppose, is that you wanted to make sure Cavallo followed through. Therefore, the simple truth is that you, Lisa Whinnypeg, dressed as August Sorrel, disguising yourself as a stallion."

It was the piece of Wilde's deduction that I had not immediately grasped before his words on the train made me realize the major inconsistency between the testimonies we had heard. Edward Whinnypeg had claimed that both Lisa Whinnypeg and Charles Shoemaker had attended his party, but only Lisa Whinnypeg had said she attended. When I realized that Edward Whinnypeg had been lying, the obvious conclusion was that Lisa Whinnypeg was lying as well, and since far more mammals would have seen Edward at the party it suggested Lisa had been somewhere else. Knowing of Wilde's talent for disguises, it had taken me longer than perhaps it should have to realize that a slim stallion with a queer voice could be a mare with a normal build in male clothing, taking some effort to disguise her feminine voice. The colouration of the supposed August Sorrel did not match Lisa Whinnypeg's, but I knew the answer and was unsurprised when Wilde explained it.

"You bleached your mane and tail blonde for your disguise, and used dye to turn your white patches brown except on your muzzle, giving yourself a blaze. However, when first I saw you I knew you had recently dyed your fur. You did an excellent job restoring cleaning the dye from your fur and thus restoring your natural coat pattern, but your efforts were not quite perfect. Your skin is pink underneath your white patches and dark under your brown patches, except in a few places where it is pink under a brown patch. As for your tail and mane, we know from the portrait your father had commissioned that their natural colour is a light brown, not black, but I suppose after bleaching the hair you found it difficult to restore the colour perfectly."

The family portrait had indeed provided the clues necessary to support Wilde's deductions; when first I had looked at it I had noted that Lisa Whinnypeg's fur patterns appeared ever so slightly different, but had not thought much of it. The evidence of her dying her fur was undeniable, however, and knowing what to look for I could not miss it. "Had you the chance to ask, I might have provided advice for better disguises," Wilde said, and while a thin smile crossed his lips his eyes were cold as he looked at the mare.

Lisa Whinnypeg had still not spoken although her hooves worked themselves into tight fists and then loosened again, over and over, as she glared at the fox. "You were, I suppose, furious when Cavallo made a poisoning attempt, particularly when it did not work. Still, he had access to the keys and you knew the room Quixano would be in. Incidentally, Lupuson, this is how I know White was uninvolved. The elephant carried Quixano into the room and put him on the floor at Dr. Hopps's request, while she arranged the pillows and blankets to appear like a sleeping mule. Had he been involved, he surely would have told the shooter where Quixano could really be found rather than allowing Cavallo to waste a shot and nearly fall to Hopps's own return fire."

Wilde spoke his aside to Lupuson almost conversationally, but he did not take his eyes off of Lisa Whinnypeg. "At any rate, Cavallo fled to the suite he knew you would be in, injured although not fatally. You were in quite a bind—with the storm you had not accounted for outside, you could not simply flee, and Cavallo had been rather sloppy. I suspect you intended to murder him all along, but you advanced your schedule, poisoning him with the contents of your doctor's bag you brought along probably more out of the force of habit than anything else. Cavallo must have realized your intent and struggled with you, the air rifle being thrown out the window in the process. Although he might have been stronger than you and was definitely fighting for his life, he was weakened by a gunshot wound and poison, and eventually you threw him out the window too. The fall was not fatal, but I think he was in no state of mind to act appropriately. He crawled for the rifle and you left him for dead, taking the opportunity to clean up the mess and hastily attempt to alter the evidence to suggest that Cavallo fled outside after being shot by Dr. Hopps.

"You then spent what was doubtlessly an uneasy night, slipping out as soon as the storm had passed once you were confident Cavallo was dead. Your attempted cover up remained sloppy; you ought to have done a better job of convincing Edward to stick to the story that August Sorrel was responsible and of impressing upon William Whinnypeg how dangerous this supposed stallion was. Alas, William Whinnypeg, being quite innocent but not wanting to appear involved, stretched the truth only slightly to withhold important information—and that not necessarily purposefully, for memories are far from perfect—and Edward attempted to pin the blame on Adam Hayes using the rifle to further his suggestion. You did a remarkably poor job of coordinating with Edward, but I suppose you are far from a career criminal."

Wilde stopped and clapped his paws together. "I believe that covers almost everything," he said, "I saw also the bandages on your arms hidden by the sleeves of your dress. Mementos of your struggle with Cavallo, I am sure."

Lisa Whinnypeg's head hung low, the fire that had appeared in the mare's eyes completely vanishing to be replaced with resignation. "It's all true," she said, "Leave Charles out of it; he had no part."

"How could you?" Shoemaker asked from where he was still slumped on the floor.

His voice was weak, sounding nearly broken, and despite how large and strong he was he had a childish look of loss in his eyes. "I did what I had to," Lisa said.

She did not resist as Lupuson cuffed her, although when he began leading her out the door she asked, "What did Edward get for betraying me?"

Wilde looked to me before turning back to the mare. "I haven't the slightest idea," Wilde replied, "We haven't actually confronted him yet."

Lisa Whinnypeg's eyes bulged with hate as she tried lunging for Wilde, but Trunkaby intervened and stopped the mare with seeming no effort, the grip of her massive paw stopping the horse completely. "You had better not," Trunkaby said, her voice a low grumble, "Come along."

After the arrest of Lisa Whinnypeg, we returned to the coffee house and had a wait of perhaps half an hour before Edward Whinnypeg arrived, as Wilde and I had arranged when providing invitations. His arrest was somewhat less dramatic, and in short order a Black Maria had arrived and taken the two Whinnypeg siblings away. "You have my gratitude, Wilde," Lupuson said, offering Wilde a paw to shake, "And I mean no offense, but I hope I shall not need to call upon you anytime soon."

"None is taken," Wilde replied, a smile touching his lips, "But would you not stay a while longer? For what is about to happen, I do believe the police should be present as a precaution."

Lupuson turned to glance over at where Trunkaby was sitting, but the elephant was lost in conversation with Aaron White, and I heard her emit a rather uncharacteristic giggle in response to something the bull elephant had said. "I suppose I owe you that much," Lupuson replied, and we sat and drank coffee and ate pastries for another half-an-hour or so until the last mammals to arrive turned up at the appointed time.

Adam Hayes and Hope Quaggason showed up together, looking rather puzzled, and shortly thereafter William Whinnypeg arrived with his major-domo in tow. The last to arrive, looking much recovered, was Lawrence Quixano, and only once the mule was present did Wilde begin to explain how events had transpired. Once he had come to the end of his recitation, Quixano pulled out his purse and began peeling off banknotes. "I am a mammal of my word, Mr. Wilde," he said gruffly, "Thank you."

"I do appreciate being paid," Wilde said, the money vanishing into his paws, "Although that is not why I have asked you and the others here. Well, not the only reason, at least."

"Then why?" William Whinnypeg asked, but in response Wilde did not look at him.

"You know exactly why, do you not, Mr. Cleveland?" he said, looking up at the major-domo over his cup of coffee, "You know the true significance of this meeting place."

"What does he mean?" Whinnypeg asked, turning to look at his servant, who simply lowered his eyes.

"Allow me to tell a story that I think is of particular interest to everyone present," Wilde began, "Years ago, in 1850 or thereabouts, Lawrence Whinnypeg was not a wealthy earl, merely the second in the line of inheritance to an earl who had nearly bankrupted his family. Lawrence Whinnypeg did, however, have quite a bit of business sense, which both his own father and his eldest sister lacked, and he ventured to Amareca to make his fortune, which he did beyond anyone's wildest dreams. He was a dutiful enough son to support his family back home in Bestian, but with a sister due to inherit the family title he acted selfishly in one regard. He married an Amarecan who, quite naturally, lacked any title. He loved her, although he knew his father would not approve, for in addition to being the rough and tumble daughter of an Amarecan prospector, Allison Gray was a zebra."

Everyone around the table looked surprised except for Cleveland, and William Whinnypeg turned on his servant again. "You _knew_?" he demanded, and the major-domo simply nodded, appearing incapable of speech.

"I have wired for a facsimile of the marriage certificate, but I have had a mammal in Amareca confirm for me that there is one on file in Eureka, Califurnia, for a marriage between Mr. Lawrence Whinnypeg, a horse stallion, and Ms. Allison Gray, a zebra mare. Once I knew where he had obtained his air rifle, it was simple enough to find the seat of his holding."

"Surely this Allison Gray must have died, or they got divorced," William Whinnypeg said, "Otherwise—"

"I am getting to that, yes," Wilde said, interrupting smoothly, "They were quite happy together until Lawrence Whinnypeg received word that his older sister had died and he was to inherit the Whinnypeg title upon his father's eventual death. A death, I must add, that he likely anticipated to come soon, for his father was quite sickly. Now the young Lawrence Whinnypeg found himself torn between duty and love, but also unwilling to give up on either; he had still not told his father of his marriage and did not intend to. Therefore, Lawrence Whinnypeg returned to Bestian, his bride at his side. He planned, at first, to keep Allison Whinnypeg a secret until his father's death, willing to weather any public scrutiny once the estate was settled. Lawrence Whinnypeg even set up his wife in the very same flat that Lisa Whinnypeg occupied and I have no doubt that he used the tunnel connecting it to the coffee house to visit her in secret whenever he was in Zootopia on business. Eventually, however, the major-domo of the Whinnypeg estate discovered what Lawrence Whinnypeg was up to. I know you are not stupid, Mr. Cleveland; perhaps you simply realized that the young lord was using the same setup his grandfather had used to conceal a mistress and wished simply to ensure there was no threat to the Whinnypeg family."

"That was it exactly," Cleveland said, his voice a weak croak, "But what I found— It would have ruined the family."

"What you discovered," Wilde said, "Was that Allison Whinnypeg, who was Lawrence Whinnypeg's lawfully wedded wife, was pregnant. I have these letters she wrote to Lawrence Whinnypeg. You may note the consistently Amarecan spellings of certain words, and Lawrence Quixano may also vouch that the writing is not that of his mother Roberta Quixano."

Wilde pulled the love letters that had been hidden in Lawrence Whinnypeg's desk from his pocket and placed them on the table. "Her writing was much neater," Quixano agreed as he looked down at the letters, "I am certain she did not write these."

"Now then," Wilde said, "I would ask you to tell everyone what happened next, and I would caution you not to lie, Mr. Cleveland."

"I didn't kill her, I swear I didn't," the old major-domo said weakly, "But I arranged the lord's schedule to keep him at the estate or otherwise away from Zootopia as much as possible, and when she went into labour early he was away. The midwife did everything she could, I swear she did, I swear it on my life, but Allison died."

"You saw your opportunity," Wilde said, and his eyes seemed as though they could burn holes through the elderly stallion, "With his Amarecan zebra of a wife dead, the foal that was the proof of their union was the only thing preventing Lawrence Whinnypeg from being a proper noble. However, you could not bring yourself to murder a babe, could you?"

"Never in life," Cleveland said, and there were tears flowing freely from his eyes, "But for the sake of the family honour—"

"Do not speak to me of honour!" William Whinnypeg interrupted, "You have acted about as dishonourably as possible. This foal, what happened to it?"

Whinnypeg had seized Cleveland's arms in his hooves, his ears flicked back and his muzzle only inches from Cleveland's own. "It was a mare, wasn't it?" Hope Quaggason asked softly, speaking for the first time since the telling had begun, "That's why you invited Master Hayes and I here, isn't it?"

"Yes," Wilde replied, "It is indeed. I am sorry to tell you that the mammals you believe to be your parents are no relation to you, nor are you a quagga. You are Hope Whinnypeg, a horse and zebra hybrid, and you are the rightful heir to the Whinnypeg holdings."

She looked stunned, completely incapable of speech, and Adam Hayes turned to her, concern evident in his eyes. "Are you sure?" she managed at last.

"Quite so," Wilde replied, "I saw the family portrait your supposed mother—"

"She _is_ my mother!" the maid interrupted, with more heat than I had ever heard in her voice, and Wilde tilted his head to concede the description.

"That your mother, albeit not your birth mother, carries with her. Although twins, particularly when one is male and the other female, do not always closely resemble each other, your brother strongly resembles your parents in a way you do not. However, having seen also the portrait of your birth father, your resemblance to him is uncanny. The parts of your fur that are brown without stripes are precisely the same shade as his own fur, and the shape of your muzzle and eyes are nearly identical. It is only his lack of stripes, or your having of them should you prefer to think of it like that, that prevents most mammals from seeing the resemblance. Mr. Cleveland, I suppose you found a family of quaggas that had recently had a child and offered them a rather attractive deal to adopt another and pass her off as a twin. I suppose once their own foal died they became all the more committed to their adopted daughter."

"It was as you say," the old major-domo said, and his tears had not stopped flowing, "If anyone else figured it out, the heiress needed to be available, and the Quaggasons really did love her."

There was a silence that crossed the table, and I admit that even I was astonished at the revelation. I had not deduced it myself, although once Wilde had laid all the pieces out before me I wondered at how I could have missed it. William Whinnypeg was the first to act. "Then allow me to be the first to congratulate you, Lady Hope Whinnypeg, Countess of Meadowlands," he said.

Wilde slid the letters Allison Gray had written across the table to Lady Whinnypeg. "Perhaps you may find these to be of some interest," he said, "Love letters, written by your birth mother to your birth father. I would daresay they are full of love for you as well."

"The late Lady Whinnypeg did name you, you know," Cleveland added, "The midwife said it was what she wanted, if the foal was a mare."

There were tears in Lady Whinnypeg's eyes, sliding down her muzzle and onto the table, and Adam Hayes wrapped an arm around her. "Master..." she began, and then she began again.

"Adam," she said, "I think... I think it would be appropriate now, for a noble lady to choose. If... If I change my answer, will you still have me?"

Her voice was barely more than a whisper and trembled with tears. "Of course I will," the actor replied, and his own voice sounded as though he was speaking around a lump.

I realized then what the message Wilde had delivered to Adam Hayes had meant, and also that the actor had taken it to heart. He had asked Hope Whinnypeg to marry him when she had been but a servant, before she had known she was the true although rather unlikely heir to a noble family, and she would never have to fear that he only desired her title or her money. It was one of the sweetest acts of love I have ever seen, and my own eyes welled with tears as I shared a small part of their joy.

* * *

Although I suppose that the resolution of events in the coffee house was the end of the mystery, I cannot say that it was the end of my story. Perhaps I am indulging myself—Wilde, at least, would likely say so—but I think there is a little more that would be wrong to exclude despite having nothing at all to do with the case. Therefore, I shall say that, on the thirtieth, Wilde and I received a pair of visitors that I had not expected.

When the knocking at the door came I was the one to answer, although I quickly gestured Wilde over to join me, for it was Adam Hayes and Hope Whinnypeg outside our front door. I invited them in eagerly, and soon the four of us were seated at the table in our parlour sharing a pot of tea to warm up our visitors. "I should like to give you this, as a measure of my gratitude," Hope Whinnypeg said, giving Wilde a bottle of what was unmistakably champagne.

"Of _our_ gratitude," Adam Hayes interjected, smiling fondly at his fiancée.

Knowing that Wilde had given Hayes the nudge it took him to finally ask the question he had likely longed to ask ever since he had received his mother's ring—which Whinnypeg wore proudly—was reason enough for the pair to appreciate my friend, and I do not think I have ever seen a more affectionate couple.

"Well it is very much appreciated," Wilde said, "I am happy to have helped, and I am sure Dr. Hopps will say the same."

He spoke the words quite simply, but I thought he was even more pleased than he let on at their gratitude. Although I have observed that Wilde has no small estimation of his own skills as a detective, and that he is quite fond of praise, I think he appreciated seeing how he had helped mammals far more than he would ever admit. "It has indeed been a pleasure," I said, and there was a brief silence as we all sipped at our drinks.

"You shall have to get used to the doings of Parliament," Wilde observed, and Hope Whinnypeg chuckled.

"I have an excellent teacher to guide me on how to present myself," she said, and she ran an affectionate hoof across the shoulder of Adam Hayes, and I saw his ears flush at the compliment.

"Besides, I have already had my first encounter with a Member of Parliament and MP Bellwether was nothing like I had feared," Hope added cheerfully, "She is a member of the House of Commons and is not from my father's party, but she was still ever so sweet."

"Is that so?" Wilde asked, although I did not know if he knew who the MP was any more than I did.

At the time I vaguely recalled Bellwether as having been a strong voice for banking reform, although of course as I conclude writing this some months later she is now much better known as one of the rising stars of her party. I found her actions quite admirable, considering she could have easily done nothing without being judged for it, and I can only hope that other members of Parliament have been as kind.

"O yes," Hope replied, "She said that although she disagreed with my father on many points, he was still a respected colleague and Parliament is the poorer for his loss."

"I suppose she can afford to be gracious, considering her party is on the rise, but it is a kindness nonetheless," Wilde said, and indeed the events that have transpired since then have proven him right.

Following the revelation that William Whinnypeg was not the true earl of Meadowlands, and that the rightful holder of the Whinnypeg seat in the House of Lords was herself a hybrid raised as a servant, the party the deceased Lord Whinnypeg had spent so much time and effort shaping and guiding had all but fallen apart, a deep schism forming between the wing willing to accept Hope Whinnypeg into their ranks and the wing that was not. I think I hardly need to recount the vitriolic articles and letters that have been penned since then, many of them accusing Hope of being a fraud—or far worse—or saying that by nature of her birth she had no right to a seat in Parliament. Nearly as much ink has been spilled condemning poor William Whinnypeg, who I do believe to be a perfectly noble and gracious mammal undeserving of such public repudiation, and I hope that my narrative lays out at last the truth of the matter rather than the wild rumours that have been bandied about and found their way into print. William Whinnypeg had stepped aside quite publicly, with absolutely no complaint, and spoke glowingly of both his half-sister and his half-brother while also declaring his desire to run for a seat in the House of Commons. Knowing what had happened to his father upon the death of the love of his life, for the late Lord Lawrence Whinnypeg had become a cold and distant mammal indeed who had married a mare he never loved out of obligation and shamelessly cheated on her, it was good to see William Whinnypeg had not lost his desire to make the world better along with his title.

It is not my intent to attempt to shape politics, although I will say now that I think an incomplete understanding of events was at least partially responsible for the vote of no confidence that took the majority party out of power when it became clear they could no longer effectively govern. "It is indeed noble of her to show kindness," I agreed, and both Hayes and Whinnypeg nodded.

"I should like to be as kind myself," Hope Whinnypeg said, "I hope to be proud of the work I do."

"With an attitude such as that, I have no doubt that you will be," Wilde replied, and in that regard I think he was correct as well.

Although the few months that have passed are a small sample indeed, she has been in my opinion an exemplary member of the House of Lords, and I expect she shall continue her excellent work. "Well, you must excuse us," Adam Hayes said, rubbing his hooves together briskly, "We have a wedding to plan, and I am quite eager to begin."

The look that he gave his fiancée, and the one she gave him in return, was pure adoration, and I could not help but wish the best for the couple. "You are of course invited," Whinnypeg added, "The both of you."

"Your invitations shall be the first ones we send," Hayes said, and Wilde and I both smiled.

"It shall be my honour to attend," I said, and Wilde nodded his agreement.

"As the good doctor says, I am honoured."

* * *

New Year's Eve saw Wilde and me once more in our flat, having concluded a far less vexing concern than the matter of Lawrence Quixano some hours earlier and taking the opportunity to relax. Wilde had curled himself up in his favourite chair beside the fire, and I in mine, and while he read the evening paper I was beginning my first draft of this very narrative. It was shortly before ten o'clock that Wilde suddenly looked over his newspaper at me.

"You know, Hopps," Wilde said thoughtfully, "I have not heard you mention any plans for how to spend New Year's Eve. Would you care to join me? A bottle of champagne so fine as that demands good company."

He gestured at the bottle that Hope Whinnypeg had given him, which was still on our table, and while I cannot claim to be any kind of _connoisseur_ of fine wines it certainly looked impressive. In all the excitement concerning first the matter of Lawrence Quixano and then the subsequent case Wilde had taken up, I had honestly given no thought to New Year's Eve and would have likely spent the occasion in bed had Wilde not extended his offer. "I should be glad to," I said, happily setting aside my lesson plans.

"Wonderful," Wilde replied, a smile touching his lips, "I know an excellent spot to watch the festivities. Come along, we must hurry if we are to make it before midnight."

I needed no further prompting, and I quickly prepared myself for the chilly weather outside as Wilde packed up the bottle along with a pair of champagne flutes I had not even known that he owned. Once we were outside we moved by foot, our breath coming in great foggy gusts visible by the glow of the streetlamps, as Wilde led me along. It was not a long journey, and as always Wilde was excellent company, making it seem even shorter. After we climbed up a water tower that even now I do not know why Wilde had a key to I realized our walk had taken us very nearly to the River Hammes, which was faintly visible by the warm glow of the city at night. The view itself was spectacular, the river threading its way through the city like a silver ribbon and the lights of countless buildings sparkling as if to emphasize how vast the city was. In the distance the great greenhouse of the Rain-Forest District glittered, lit from within, and I could even see the lights of Tundra Town, the night was so clear. Closer to where we were I could see the lights of watercraft on the river and the torches of mammals gathered about in public squares as they awaited the New Year. I could even hear snatches of song and the gabble of conversations too distant to make out, but Wilde and I were completely alone. "It is magnificent," I said as Wilde carefully unpacked the champagne and set it aside on the narrow balcony that ran along the top of the water tower.

Wilde had thoughtfully packed a thickly knit blanket for the each of us, so as to prevent the chill of sitting on bare concrete to leech the warmth from our bodies, and I took my place beside him as I looked raptly out onto the city below. "It is," Wilde agreed, and he opened the bottle of champagne with a merry pop, pouring us each a goodly measure.

He gave me my champagne flute and then pulled out his pocket watch, seeming to have no difficulty reading its hands even under the dim illumination of whatever light made it up to us. "Five minutes to midnight," he observed.

Seeing Wilde looking into his watch called forth the memory of the portrait inside of the cover, and a question came to my lips I could no longer repress. "May I ask," I said, "If the vixen inside the cover of your watch, the vixen Mr. Yaxley expected to be accompanying you in my place, and Ms. Autumn Skye are all one and the same?"

Wilde looked up from his watch, snapping it closed before returning it to his pocket in a seemingly careless fashion. "You may certainly ask," he said, a slight smile touching his lips, and I thought it would be the only answer he would provide.

It was therefore to my considerable surprise when, after a moment's silence, my friend spoke again. "You are correct that they are all the same mammal," he said, and there was a look in his eyes I had never quite seen before—it was not the introspective gaze I had seen when he was lost in thought, but rather almost as though he was focused on something outward that I could not glimpse.

"I knew Skye when her theatre company passed through Zootopia," he continued, "I do believe her to be the most talented chanteuse I have ever heard, and you know of my own small talent with the violin. However..."

He trailed off, his tail swinging slowly from side to side, but I did not dare interrupt, not even to correct him about his skill with the violin, which was considerable. I was listening with all my attention, for I had never before heard Wilde provide any but the most trivial details of his past. "I suppose that neither of us was the mammal the other expected them to be. The _fox_ the other expected them to be, I might say. There is a very valuable lesson I learned from her, you know."

Wilde fell silent again, and when it seemed he would not continue I prompted him with, "What lesson is that?"

"The scales of justice do not balance themselves, but they may be nudged," he said.

Although I could not help but wonder how Skye fit into Wilde's worldview, I supposed that for the first time Wilde was explaining to me why he was a detective. It would have been nothing to him to allow Hope Whinnypeg to remain a maid, for no one else had divined the truth and he had solved the attempts on Quixano's life quite neatly. He had exposed the truth of her birth right, though, and I cannot say how much I admired him for it. Even Lawrence Quixano had been quite satisfied with how events transpired, for with his half-sister holding a seat in Parliament he had felt inspired to redouble his efforts on behalf of hybrids even as he returned to the work he loved as a blacksmith and farrier. In the moment, and indeed even now, it seemed as though the topics of hybrids had become a much more divisive topic, but I had faith that the work of the Whinnypegs would pay off. "Thank you," I said, and Wilde did not need to ask what I was thanking him for.

We were quiet a moment longer before what must have been every church bell in Zootopia began tolling, the deep and resonant sounds of the larger bells mixed with the sweet chimes of the smaller ones. Underneath the bells I heard cheers and huzzahs rising from distant gatherings and the sky was suddenly alight with fireworks, brilliant colours throwing the River Hammes and Wilde into sharp and momentary relief. Wilde gestured at me with his champagne flute and I saw the lights flickering and dancing in his eyes as though he was their source. "Happy New Year, Judith," he said.

I clinked my champagne flute delicately against his. "Happy New Year, Nicholas."

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

As this story ends, I'd like to begin by thanking you for reading. I'm very happy to have been able to write something that other people enjoy, and I hope you enjoyed seeing how everything ends! DeadDireWolf and CombatEngineer get to split an honourable mention for a fabulous no-prize for deducing that the major-domo had some involvement. DrummerMax64 also gets an honourable mention for spotting the hints in the letter written by Allison Gray suggesting that she would name a daughter Hope. Well spotted!

Samuel Percheron is named after a French breed of horse, the Percheron, that is named after the Perche province where they originated.

Bruising a bone is possible and usually quite painful. It's actually more of a microfracture rather than a true bruise the way skin can bruise, but it can take months for such injuries to heal.

The Confederate States of America did not mint very many coins; they struck a grand total of four half-dollars and probably less than two dozen one cent coins. Granted, their economy suffered from such rapid inflation that there wasn't much demand for coins; when a bar of soap cost 50 Confederate dollars, you're better off using paper money. With coins being so rare, I think it's understandable why White doesn't have one that he could drill a hole in and put on his watch's chain.

White having fought in the war at the age of twelve suggests that he's somewhere between 28 and 32 as the American Civil War was fought between 1861 and 1865. In the late 19th century there would be quite a few living American veterans, including some who wouldn't be all that old.

Skewbald horses really do tend to have pink skin under their white patches and black or otherwise darkly colored skin under their brown patches, making it a pretty reliable way to show that Lisa Whinnypeg dyed herself.

A "Black Maria" is a slang term for a prisoner transport wagon that was in use in the 19th century, and to a limited extent is still used in the UK today.

There are two words in the letter shown in chapter 19 that are spelled in the American way rather than the British way—"meager" instead of "meagre" and "pretense" instead of "pretence." This is, incidentally, also one of the factors that motivated me to make sure the rest of the story used British spelling, as this clue wouldn't work otherwise.

This chapter also reveals the true meaning of this story's title—Lawrence Quixano is not the unlikely heir; Hope is. Countess is the proper feminine form of earl, a version unique to that title and not shared with the feminine form of count never developed.

Votes of no confidence are a feature of many parliamentary systems, including the parliament of the UK, that allow the ruling government to be taken out of power if it no longer has majority support. As described, considering that the former majority party fractured over the standing of a mule, it shouldn't be unexpected for the minority party to take the opportunity to claim leadership.

Champagne as a drink gained quite a bit of popularity in the late 19th century as the result of aggressive advertising campaigns that linked it to nobility and royalty, which also gives a second meaning to why Hope chose it to give to Wilde. All of the advertising paid off, as by the end of the 19th century the majority of the people drinking champagne were middle-class. Champagne flutes as glassware have existed since about the 1700s, having been developed to show off the fizzing bubbles of the drink and to reduce the surface area exposed to air to help maintain the carbonation.

Water towers were pretty common in 19th century London to help maintain the water pressure of the vast system of pipes that connected the city. Especially considering that 1881 is before skyscrapers started springing up, the tallest structures in many parts of the city would be water towers, helping them provide excellent and unobstructed views.

Although in the real world London has only had official fireworks displays since the year 2000, the ringing of church bells and the setting off of fireworks by private citizens to celebrate the New Year would not have been unexpected in the 19th century.

The use of first names in the 19th century was somewhat different than it is now. In the original Sherlock Holmes stories, neither Holmes nor Watson ever calls the other by their first name despite being good friends. It simply wasn't common at the time to use someone's first name unless they were extremely close to you—or if they were of a lower social rank. I think the moment at the end of this story works to show the close bond between the two, and I hope that this story was enjoyable overall.

My next story, "Ouroboros: the Endless Cycle," has had its first chapter posted, and will begin running in my weekly Sunday slot beginning next week. It's a fantasy AU that's a bit different than my other stories, but if you liked this one you might like it or my other works.

After that story ends there are a few other stories that I am working on, although I haven't yet decided which will be the one that goes up next. There are four likely candidates, though, and I'd certainly be interested in hearing which one readers would like to see next. The options are:

-The next Sherlock Holmes AU story in this series, which jumps ahead a few months to the summer of 1882 and takes Wilde and Hopps out of the city and to the countryside.

-A mystery/romance story set far enough after the movie ended that Nick and Judy are recently married.

-A prequel (not an AU) set in the 1970s with a cast of virtually all OCs of my own creation, which is a sort of buddy cop mystery story

-An AU set in the 1960s that would be more of a spy action/adventure thriller than a mystery, although with plenty of action and romance.

As always, I'd love to know what you thought!


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